


These Hollow Hills

by zythepsary



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Pining, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:44:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4733198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zythepsary/pseuds/zythepsary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iron Bull takes a sword to the belly. Dorian doesn't handle it very well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Hollow Hills

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [heybulldawg](http://archiveofourown.org/users/heybulldawg/pseuds/heybulldawg) for the initial read-through and suggestions, and to [dichotomous_dragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dichotomous_dragon) for going through several scene rewrites with me. I really appreciate all the time you both spent with me.
> 
> And many, many thanks to [snewts](http://snewts.tumblr.com/) and [sorellaerba](http://sorellaerba.tumblr.com) for their lovely art.
> 
> *
> 
> This fic contains references to drunk sex and brief mentions of vomiting, but nothing explicit. Background pairing is Trevelyan/Cullen.

Sunlight poured through the open window, spilling over the sheets tangled around Dorian's legs.

He stretched, kicking the sheets to the end of the bed. The fabric was smooth and pleasant against his bare skin, and he wanted to tug the covers up over his head and sleep away the rest of his hangover. Orlesian wine was too rich, like their food, and he could still feel both clinging to his ribs.

Sighing, Dorian pushed himself up.

Pressure plunged behind his eyes. He groaned and blinked, trying to get rid of the dizziness. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and his mouth tasted foul. He should have drank more water before falling asleep.

There was a light breakfast waiting for him on the bedside table, as he expected. Duke Bastien employed silent and skilled servants who always seemed to appear at Dorian's side just when he thought about asking for something. He would compliment the man on his hiring practices, but the Duke was staying in another one of his estates. Vivienne refused to elaborate on the details, even when Trevelyan asked. Dorian hadn't had any luck, either.

He eyed the tray: dry toast, slices of melon, and small pitchers of water and juice. The same meal that had been provided for him every morning for a fortnight.

Weeks ago, some Orlesian noble had invited Trevelyan and her associates to a private soirée. Once word got out that she had accepted, several other families had swarmed Skyhold with letters requesting her presence in their homes. Josephine and Leliana had encouraged her to attend them all, since this was another opportunity to collect information about potential allies and enemies before they traveled to Halamshiral, so Trevelyan had gathered everyone for a trip to Orlais.

Each noble family tried to outdo the others, from the food and drink to the entertainment. Generally, Dorian enjoyed himself at these parties, but he had grown bored of Orlesian customs by the first week. There was only so much small talk and painted masks he could take. Tonight was the final party, at least. Josephine and Vivienne had arranged for the important people to gather at Bastien's estate and celebrate all the kindness they had offered the Inquisition.

Dorian picked up the toast and forced himself to eat it, even when his stomach protested. He drank the water and juice before finally leaving his bed in search of clothing.

Downstairs, almost everyone gathered for the midday meal. Cole and Solas were missing, as was Vivienne, but the chorus of greetings was still loud enough to churn Dorian's belly. The laughter that followed when he grimaced didn't help.

"Nice of you to join us," said Blackwall, still chuckling. He brushed crumbs out of his beard.

Dorian grunted and dropped into the closest chair, rubbing at his eyes. A servant hurried over and filled his water glass. He dismissed them with a quiet, "Thank you," and downed the glass in a single swallow.

"You hungry?" Bull asked. He was sitting at the head of the table with two clean plates in front of him. The table was nearly empty, which wasn’t surprising. Food didn't last long with Bull and Sera around.

Dorian tipped his head back against the chair, closing his eyes. That same servant refilled his water glass. "I had toast."

"Eat something more substantial when you can," said Trevelyan. He could feel her gaze on him, so he nodded. "Good. Sera—"

Silverware clattered against a plate, followed by Sera's muffled cackling. Dorian groaned.

"Sera," Trevelyan tried again, once the noise had faded. "Have you discovered anything else about Lady Poirier?"

Dorian clutched the water glass to his chest and sighed, letting their conversation drift into the background. He had no real interest in a discussion about Lady Poirier. She was a minor noble, feeding the Inquisition gossip about her rivals in the hopes of rising a bit further in Orlesian society. Boring, but Trevelyan tended to follow every lead until it was picked clean.

Sera answered. Her words were muffled by a mouthful of food.

"She used to be close with…oh, I've forgotten his name," Cassandra was saying. Blackwall murmured something. "Yes, him."

"…before the Blight, I think."

A chair creaked. Dorian ignored it.

"Stupid, yeah? I know."

"…until we know exactly what he plans…"

Someone snorted.

Dorian opened one bleary eye, ready to chastise whoever was making so much noise, and realized that _he_ must have made the sound. The room was empty, save for him and Bull, and his mouth had the oddly damp feel that he usually associated with afternoon naps. Mortified, Dorian straightened in his seat. The forgotten water glass tumbled in his hands, but he managed to right it before any liquid spilled over his lap.

Bull's laughter was loud and warm, echoing in the large room.

"Oh, stop," Dorian grumbled. He drank the rest of the water before placing the glass on the table and wiping the sleep away from his mouth. "How long was I out?"

"Ten minutes," Bull answered. The chair scraped against the floor as he stood. "Maybe fifteen."

He walked around the table and came to a stop behind Dorian's chair. A moment later, the floorboard creaked, quite deliberately, and then a hand covered the top of his head. Fingers pushed into his scalp, rubbing in small circles, and Dorian found himself leaning into the touch. Oh, _Maker_. He always forgot how big Bull's hands were until they were on him.

Bull chuckled.

"Don't you dare say something about cats," said Dorian. His traitorous eyes fluttered shut.

"I'm thinking it, though."

"Keep it to yourself."

"Will do," Bull murmured. Dorian could hear his smile.

This was _bliss_. Faint tingles spread down Dorian's neck and darted out towards his limbs, tangling with his skin. His headache faded whenever Bull's fingers pushed into his skin. He stretched closer, sighing.

After a minute, Bull asked quietly, "This is good?"

"Oh, yes."

It was good. Harmless. Dorian preferred intimacy in a room with a lock, but this was a small touch. He liked those, especially when they were hidden from sight. Something as simple as Bull's hand on his knee under a table reminded him of a sweaty chest against his back or a hot mouth on his neck. A little hint of something more.

Bull dragged his fingers through Dorian's hair. "How's your hangover?"

"Gone, mostly," Dorian answered. He kept his eyes closed, concentrating on the steady movement of Bull's fingers. "I think I'm just tired."

"Still?"

Dorian nodded. He hadn't been able to get any sleep until dawn. "I have trouble falling asleep sometimes."

"I wouldn't know," Bull replied. There was no venom in his tone, but shame still blossomed in Dorian's chest. It lingered there, souring his thoughts.

They rarely slept together. In camp, everyone slept three or four to a tent with scores of soldiers wandering by at all hours, so there was never a chance of privacy unless they went for a stroll. That was fine, and it worked well with their arrangement. If they weren't able to break away from camp at night, they always made up for lost time back in Skyhold, and Bull was a comforting weight to sleep next to. There was nothing to fear in the shadows with a greataxe-wielding giant nearby.

Nearly six months had passed since Dorian found himself in Bull's quarters after several strong drinks, and he could count the number of times he'd spent the night on one hand. He wondered if it was something that was expected of him now. Bull certainly liked to tease him about leaving so soon after they were satisfied: telling him to wait until the sweat dried, at the very least, or asking him if he wanted to keep his boots on while they fucked. Usually, Dorian would tell him to be quiet, and then Bull would tug him back into bed for another round.

The offer was always available. Bull had made that clear, though he never stated that having Dorian spend the night was something he wanted or needed. And Dorian knew he wasn't required to do the same in return. The few times they'd fucked in Dorian's quarters, Bull hadn't even broached the subject.

Which was good, because Dorian didn't see the point in staying overnight. While he would admit to having fun sneaking around the tavern in the early hours, he preferred his own space. He liked his quarters, and his bed. And Bull was a terrible snuggler, likely to suffocate Dorian in his sleep one night.

Dorian snorted at the thought. What a way to go. His parents would be proud _._

Bull's hand disappeared.

"Oh," said Dorian, before he could stop himself. It was a sad little noise, hardly discernible over the sound of his knee hitting the table as he tried to turn and see what was happening behind him.

Bull hadn't moved. He was still standing behind Dorian's chair, hands at his sides, and his face was blank. Unreadable. Dorian rarely saw him wearing that particular mask, unless—

Ah. He thought he'd done something wrong. Of course. Bull was always cautious with him. A bit _too_ cautious, sometimes. When they first started fucking, he had been so gentle, treating Dorian like he would shatter if someone said the wrong thing. And there had been nights when he asked his questions more than once, even when Dorian gave the same answer each time. He was a considerate man, and that shouldn't have been so frustrating.

Dorian settled back into the chair, folding his hands over his belly. Too much time had passed, and he knew he ought to say _something_. Tell Bull that everything was fine, and assure him that he wasn't hurt by an offhand remark. That he'd just been absorbed by his own selfish thoughts again.

Instead, he decided to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and hoped that Bull would do the same.

"I doubt that you ever have trouble sleeping," said Dorian, tipping his head back. "You're always out the moment you close your eyes."

The scar over Bull's mouth stretched as he grinned and clicked his tongue. " _Eye_. Kinda hard to miss."

"Forgive me. I'm tired."

Bull reached towards him. Dorian closed his eyes, expecting another soothing touch, but the hand patted his chest.

"Then you should take a nap."

"Probably," Dorian admitted. He wouldn't be of much use tonight if he kept swallowing yawns. Sighing, he slumped deeper in the chair and touched Bull's hand idly, watching the fingers curl against his chest. Heat followed the touch, leaping under his skin. "But that requires movement."

Bull linked their fingers together and leaned closer, chuckling. His mouth was a breath away from Dorian's ear. "Sounds like someone's asking for a lift."

"No," said Dorian quickly. He appreciated Bull's size and strength, and the fact that he could lift a man in one hand and still swing an axe with the other, but to be carried through this home, in full view of anyone who wandered past—no. He could already hear Sera's high-pitched cackle. "Absolutely not."

"You sure?" Bull asked. His voice dipped lower. "If I throw you over my shoulder, you'll get a good look at my ass."

Tempting thought, but no. Dorian pinched one of Bull's fingers. "Don't you dare."

"Okay, okay," Bull murmured. Lips brushed against Dorian's cheek, so lightly he could have imagined it. "Can I walk you back to your room?"

"Aren't you polite," Dorian said. He tugged his hand free. "I would appreciate an escort through these dangerous corridors."

Bull pulled the chair back so Dorian could stand. "I promise to catch you if you fall asleep on the stairs."

As they left the dining room, Dorian tugged at his collar, grimacing. He should have bathed before leaving his quarters. Old sweat still clung to his skin, and the sickly smell lingered on his clothes.

"I need a bath," Dorian muttered. He ducked his head, combing his fingers through his limp hair.

"I can wash your back."

Dorian couldn't see Bull, but he knew a leer when he heard it. "Would you keep your hands to yourself?"

"You know I can."

And he would. He always did what Dorian told him. Still, Dorian's mind flooded with images of a hot bath and steam and Bull kneeling behind him, one hand disappearing under the water—

 _Kaffas_. He scowled and straightened, clearing his throat. This was why he couldn't spend time alone with Bull unless they were someplace private. Being near the man only aggravated his lust until it was all he could think about.

"Another time," Dorian replied. After a beat, he added, "Tonight?"

They had fucked around at every party so far.

The first had been the result of boredom, when there hadn't been enough wine or decent company. Instead of feigning politeness with the other guests, Dorian had wandered the gardens and found Bull on a bench, gazing up at the stars. They ended up behind extravagant rose bushes, rutting in the dirt with only their trousers opened.

At the second party, Bull had sidled up to him before supper and whispered a time and a place, if he was interested. A study this time, since Bull didn't want to risk Trevelyan and Josephine's wrath by walking back to a dinner party with dirt all over his clothes. Bull had sat in a huge armchair by the fire, his back to the lone door, and Dorian had gone to his knees. After, Bull had returned the favor, his big hands soft and gentle on Dorian's hips while Dorian gripped those horns.

It was only in the third estate, when they were half-clothed and sweaty and spent in a broom closet, that Dorian had remarked upon it. Bull had brightened and joked about dirtying every Orlesian home before leaning down, drawing Dorian closer for another kiss.

"Tonight, huh?" Surprise flitted across Bull's features for a moment. "I thought you didn't want to. Not here, anyway."

At Dorian's request, they hadn't been intimate in Duke Bastien's estate. Everyone had their own room in the guest wing, but Dorian still shared a wall with Varric and Solas, while Bull was at the other end of the corridor with Sera and Blackwall. People walked the halls at all hours, and Dorian didn't like the thought of being caught somewhere dark and hidden. Privacy was important to him, and he greatly appreciated that Bull understood.

But this was the last night. Dorian would likely never see the staff of this home again. And with everyone else focused on the party, they were less likely to be interrupted.

"I changed my mind," Dorian replied, shrugging. Bull grinned.

"Okay. Yeah, I'd like that." His voice dipped lower, almost to a rumble in his throat. "I'll find us a good spot."

They reached Dorian's room. He rested his hand on the doorknob, hesitating.

He could say, _Why don't you come inside_.

Or, _Follow me_.

Or he could just go inside and leave the door open. An implicit invitation. Bull would understand that.

Dorian stared at the door knob. The offer lingered on his tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to say it.

Sometimes, it felt like there was something building between them. Something _different._ Dorian wasn't sure what to make of it yet. He hoped his ignorance would last until he could summon enough courage to sit down with a cheap bottle of wine and have a proper think about it.

They didn't really talk about whatever this was. It wasn't a relationship, though he didn't have the experience to be certain. What they had now—a casual affair, with good sex and a growing friendship—was more than adequate. And he was willing to admit to himself that he was afraid to even think about anything more.

Maybe two bottles would be better.

"I would prefer somewhere downstairs," said Dorian quietly. Solas was probably in his quarters, since he rarely left them during the day. "Fewer people. I don't like interruptions."

Bull nodded. He was standing in the middle of the corridor, doing nothing at all, and yet he looked stupidly appealing. Bare chest. Dark stubble, no matter how much he shaved. Brightly-colored trousers. Dorian still wanted to kiss him.

"Okay," said Bull. He scratched absently at his belly. "I'll start there."

Dorian glanced down the hallway, but there was no one nearby. Keeping his hand on the door, he darted closer and stood on his toes to press their mouths together. Big hands touched his hips, holding him close, and he settled back onto his heels when Bull hummed and ducked down. The kiss deepened.

"I like it when you surprise me," Bull murmured. One hand moved up to touch Dorian's cheek, and he lifted Dorian's chin with his thumb. "Do it again."

Dorian scoffed and backed away, colliding with the door. His skin felt obscenely hot where Bull had touched. "That wouldn't be much of a surprise."

"I can pretend," Bull insisted. He clutched at his chest in mock, exaggerated shock as his mouth fell open and his eye widened. A chuckle slipped from Dorian's throat. "See?"

"Later," said Dorian. He opened the door and pressed his lips together to hide a smile when Bull's frown briefly turned into a pout. "I promise."

Bull grinned and waved him away. The lone eye looked bright. Happy. Something swelled behind Dorian's ribs.

"I'll see you tonight."

"Tonight," Dorian repeated, and retreated to his room.

* * *

Dorian glanced around, perhaps a little desperately, for more wine.

The party was going well, as he expected. He had spent the first hour wandering around with Vivienne and correcting people who called him _magister_ , and the next listening to Varric tell stories. Dorian had heard them all more than once before, but Varric always managed to tell each tale differently or add a new detail.

In the hall, people gathered together in small groups, drinking and talking. A few laughed, shrill and loud over the music still playing faintly in the ballroom. Once again, he was reminded of the countless dinner parties he had attended in his youth, feeling shackled to his family name and all the expectations that came with it.

But here, Orlesian women _and_ men had asked him to dance, and nobody thought that was worth mentioning. It wasn’t a new concept—he was well aware of the cultural differences between the north and south—but it still amazed him that something so simple could illicit such joy. And so he had accepted the invitations and allowed himself to be lead across the ballroom floor by men and women, who giggled at the thought of dancing with an evil magister and waxed enthusiastically about the Inquisition’s work. One slender man, hidden behind a pale blue mask, had even discussed the possibility of a new trade agreement, which delighted Josephine.

Dorian smoothed the front of his jacket. Orlesian clothing was too heavy and constricting, particularly in the summer heat, but Vivienne's tailor had been kind enough to use a lighter fabric. He didn't know how people could stand to wear clothing with so many tiny buttons. It was beyond aggravating.

A stocky shape moved through the crowd, head ducked low, but it was easy to spot Blackwall's tangle of a beard. Dorian followed, squeezing between crowds of tittering nobles, until Blackwall came to a stop around the corner.

"Oh," said Blackwall, once he recognized Dorian. He nodded curtly. "Evening."

"I'm surprised you're still here," said Dorian. Blackwall usually left these parties within an hour, claiming fatigue or too much drink. "Has someone caught your eye? Our lovely ambassador, perhaps."

Blackwall's jaw tightened, but he didn't take the bait. "I fear Madame Vivienne would be displeased if any of us were to leave early."

"Well, that _is_ true," Dorian replied. He caught a nearby servant's eye and beckoned him closer. "Wine?"

"Might as well."

Blackwall took two glasses off the tray and handed one to Dorian. He drank carefully, though a little wine clung to his beard.

"Here's to the Inquisition," said Dorian, and emptied the wine down his throat. A servant darted forward and plucked the empty glass from his hand. "And lovely ambassadors."

"And good wine," Blackwall said, raising his glass.

They made polite small talk for a few more minutes, and then Blackwall excused himself. He was a dour, solemn man, and more than a little annoying at times, but he knew when to end a conversation. Dorian could appreciate that in a person.

He continued to wander down the hallway, speaking to any person who didn’t sneer in his direction or turn pale at the sight of him. That left him with fewer people to speak to, but it was easier than listening to someone rant about his home (which Dorian could do on his own) or call him a blood mage. There were Inquisition soldiers who had turned that brand of insult into a fine art, and Dorian didn’t want to hear anything less.

When a bell rang, signifying the hour, Dorian waited and counted. He wondered where Bull was. They hadn’t seen each other since the beginning of the night, when Vivienne introduced the Inquisition to their guests.

He turned back the way he came, looking for horns, and had barely taken a few steps before an Orlesian man grabbed at his arm.

"You there," the man slurred. His fingers twisted in the fabric. "I must ask a favor. Will you allow that?"

"Well, that depends on what sort of favor you need," Dorian answered. The man was clearly drunk, swaying on his feet as he clung to Dorian's arm. "Would you like me to hold your hair back while you vomit?"

Spittle flew from the man's mouth as he scoffed. Dorian wiped his face, not bothering to be discreet.

"Tell me about the Herald," said the man. His dark eyes were bright with drink behind the mask, which was nowhere near as extravagant as some of the others Dorian had seen tonight. "I have not met her yet, and I do not want to make a bad impression."

"Sober up," Dorian replied. He tried to tug his arm free, with little success. The man's fingers tightened. "She hates drunks. Especially sloppy ones."

"Oh, no," the man moaned. He stumbled forward, burying his face in Dorian's shoulder. "I’ve made a terrible mistake."

"Probably," said Dorian, sighing. He dropped his shoulder and stepped to the side, wrenching his arm free. The man whirled to face him, eyes wet with tears, and pity overtook annoyance.

"Hey," said a deep voice, and Dorian glanced over his shoulder to see Bull.

His chest was bare tonight, since Josephine had allowed him only one night without a proper suit, and that was a relief. Seeing Bull covered from head to toe was jarring, and only drew attention to his broad chest.

Tonight, he still stood out in a crowd. The harness across his chest was fine leather, decorated with jewels and metals, and dark tattoos twisted over his shoulders and down his arms. His trousers looked to be made of the same material as those brightly-colored monstrosities, in a dark blue that was nearly black, and his eyepatch was a striking red.

"Good evening," the Orlesian man slurred.

Bull ignored him. "Boss wants a word."

She was probably still busy discussing something with the daughter of some duke, but Dorian welcomed the deception. He nodded at the drunken man, wishing him a good night, and followed Bull into the crowd.

Once they were out of earshot, Dorian sighed. "Thank you. I think he was about to start weeping."

"He got nervous about meeting the great Herald of Andraste and overcompensated with a drink or five."

Dorian nodded in agreement. He wasn't entirely unfamiliar with the concept.

"Oh, by the way," said Bull, turning to look at Dorian. He tipped his head towards the ballroom. "I saw you dancing earlier. You're really good."

"I've had a lot of practice," Dorian replied. He suppressed a shudder, remembering childhood training sessions with a woman who hit him with her staff until he positioned his arms correctly. "Thank you."

"Dancing's not my thing," said Bull, shrugging. "It's nice to watch, though."

"You enjoyed watching me dance with other men?" Dorian asked, because he couldn't quite help himself, sometimes. He was delighted when Bull looked down at him and grinned. "How risqué."

"Nowhere near it," Bull said, still grinning. He nudged Dorian's arm with his. "You wanna go back to the ballroom?"

Dorian shook his head. He'd spent enough of the night dancing with masks, and the music would only get stuck in his head.

Bull hummed and said nothing.

A moment later, Dorian's thoughts crashed to a halt. That had probably been Bull's way of asking for a dance—making his interest known, and never asking Dorian to agree to anything. That was his usual method, after all.

_Oh._

Dorian tried to imagine it. Dancing with those Orlesian nobles—that was fine. It was almost fun. All they did was smile and laugh and ask him all sorts of questions about Trevelyan, and then they went their separate ways. He could even dance with someone like Blackwall, if only because he would be so solemn about it that Sera would laugh, and that would be worth the trouble of teaching Blackwall where to put his hands.

But Bull—

He couldn't. His mind wouldn't even provide the image.

Perhaps he was meant to accept the implied offer. They had been fucking for months; dancing was nowhere near as intimate as the things they had done, and Bull might consider a dance to be foreplay.

Frustration built, spoiling Dorian's thoughts. It would be so much easier if Bull would just _tell_ him when he wanted something. He was candid behind closed doors, so why would this be any different? But, then again, given what Dorian had managed to learn about the Qun's thoughts on relationships, it was likely that Bull knew as much as Dorian did.

Not that there was a relationship. They hadn't said. Neither of them had ever asked.

Dorian scowled. It would probably be better not to think about this at all. _Kaffas_ , he needed a drink. Perhaps several.

"Hey," said Bull quietly, nudging his arm again. Dorian snapped to attention. "Where'd you go off to?"

"Nowhere special," Dorian answered. Bull's expression didn't change, which meant he spotted the lie. Dorian winced. "Shit. Sorry. I drifted off."

Bull studied him. The lone eye didn't blink. "You okay?"

"Yes, yes," Dorian said, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm fine. Just—preoccupied."

For a moment, it looked like Bull was going to ask him to elaborate. Dorian swallowed, willing his attention to go elsewhere, and was relieved when Bull nodded and leaned down.

"Do you still want to take that walk with me?" Bull murmured. His mouth was an inch away from Dorian's ear.

Dorian nodded. Of _course_ he did. He had been looking forward to this all evening. And finding somewhere dark to fool around with Bull was a far more worthwhile way to spend his time than trading small talk with the nobility or languishing about in his own thoughts.

"Good." Bull waited until they reached the end of the hall before he tilted his head towards the adjoining corridor. "This way."

Dorian followed. The corridor seemed to grow larger with every step, conversations and music fading into a dull roar. His pulse was beating rapidly in his throat by the time the crowd's noise disappeared.

Bull lead him to the cellars.

They walked through the dark corridors, boots clicking against the stone floor, until they turned a corner and reached a dead end. A lone torch burned on the wall; Dorian extinguished it with a glance. Darkness swallowed his vision. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and reached out into the empty air until he found the strap across Bull's chest.

"Come on, then," Dorian whispered. He fit his hand underneath the strap and tugged Bull closer. This was familiar, and he welcomed it. "Touch me."

Bull obeyed and groped roughly at his body, cupping and squeezing. He backed Dorian into the wall, one hand sliding up to protect his head from the stone, and leaned down to kiss him.

The stone was cold against Dorian's back, but Bull's hands were warm, and so was his tongue. They did nothing but kiss and touch each other lightly, and it didn't take long for Dorian to grow dizzy with want. It tore into his skin, leaving him breathless and feverish, and all he wanted was Bull's bare skin against his.

Dorian wrapped his arms around Bull's neck, pulling him closer.

He was a greedy man. They had met every night while they were in Orlais, and that should have been enough to satisfy him. In Skyhold, they fucked three or four times a week, depending on the Chargers' schedule, and Dorian had never been disappointed by that arrangement. But now, he wanted—every day, every night, every _hour_. This lust dug deep, down to his bones, and that wasn't supposed to be so terrifying.

Bull drew back. Dorian made a pained noise in the back of his throat.

"I'm still here," Bull said, chuckling. His hands slipped over Dorian's arse, fingers pressing hard through the leather.

It was neither question nor suggestion. His movements were always cautious—a touch was simply that, a _touch_ —but Dorian wanted more. He tipped his head back, exposing his throat, and tugged his collar down.

Bull didn't move.

"Oh, for," Dorian grumbled. He rolled his eyes and dug his fingers into the back of Bull's neck, trying to yank him down. " _Bite_ me, you fool."

"Yeah, but I like hearing you talk," Bull replied, as his hands shifted lower. He craned his neck and stopped, grimacing. "Shit, you're too short. My neck's killing me."

"I'm taller than the average human, actually," Dorian pointed out.

Bull grabbed the back of his thighs, saying, "You're all tiny," as he lifted him up. He bowed his head and sank his teeth into Dorian's collarbone, hard and fast.

It was more than Dorian expected. He hissed and stilled, swallowing a curse. This always hurt, at first, but he enjoyed it. Bull's mouth cut through the pain, sharp and sweet.

"Keep going," Dorian told him, sighing. Bull murmured something into his throat before he resumed licking and sucking at the bruised skin. "Yes—like that, yes."

Dorian’s free hand slipped off Bull's shoulder, hanging limply by his side. He could feel Bull's fingers squeezing his thighs, matching the rhythm of the hot mouth on his neck. Dorian slumped against the wall and tried not to rub his confined cock against Bull's belly. He didn't want to ruin these trousers, and Bull would certainly tease him if he did.

"I don't want to go back upstairs," Bull murmured. He nuzzled at Dorian's neck and jaw, leaving damp kisses behind. His voice, sounding deeper in the dark, felt like a physical force against Dorian's skin. "When we're done—"

He bit again, wrenching a deep moan from Dorian's throat.

"—all I'll think about is these love marks on your neck. All hidden, but—"

Another bite. His tongue left a wet trail along Dorian's collarbone.

"—I'll know. You'll know. You couldn't keep your hands off 'em, last time."

Dorian closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. Five nights ago. A boring party, with equally boring guests. A library. Bull had brought him off with a fist around his cock and a mouth on his neck. He hadn't been able to stop touching the lovemarks. What excuse had he come up with? Something about his skin being too delicate for such lavish Orlesian fabrics. The painted masks had believed it, covering their mouths as they giggled.

"I liked—touching them," Dorian admitted. His hand was at his throat before he realized that he'd moved it. Bull kissed his fingertips, then a single knuckle. "Sorry. I suppose I should have outgrown this particular fascination by now."

Bull grunted and shook his head. He placed more soft kisses on Dorian's neck. "Don't apologize."

His voice was low and sweet. Gentle. Too often, Bull would turn soft-eyed and quiet, looking at Dorian like he was something that needed mending. It always made something terrible swell in Dorian's throat.

Scowling, Dorian pushed Bull away from his neck. "Enough of that."

"Down?"

"Yes, please."

Bull placed a soft kiss on his temple before easing him to the floor. Another kindness, which Dorian tried not to be annoyed by. He tugged on the chest strap, saying, "This needs to go."

A moment later, the leather strap hit the floor, and Bull kicked it away. Dorian turned around. He flattened his palms against the wall, waiting. Stone bit into his skin.

Fingers traced his spine, trailed by the occasional shiver. It was a gentle touch, enough to lull Dorian to sleep. The wall drifted in and out of focus as he blinked. There was warm breath against the back of his neck, and then Bull ducked down to press his mouth against Dorian's jaw.

"Okay," Bull murmured. He kissed Dorian's jaw again and placed his hands over Dorian's, covering them entirely. "Tell me what you want."

 _Want_. Not _need_. Bull usually asked about one or the other, but never the same in one night. There was a difference, apparently, but Dorian didn't understand it, and Bull's explanations hadn't helped.

He always welcomed instructions, though, so Dorian told him, "Closer."

Bull moved. His chest pressed against Dorian's back, effectively pinning him to the wall, and thick fingers curled against his. There was strength there, and warmth, and the sheer fucking _size_ of him still made Dorian dizzy.

He blinked, watching his hands disappear under Bull's, and tipped his head back. Bull was grinning as he leaned down for a kiss.

"Fuck me," Dorian whispered against his mouth. He stretched up for another kiss before he added, "Please."

Bull chuckled, "So polite." One of his hands dropped to Dorian's hip, fingers dipping inside his trousers. "I didn't bring any slick."

"I can make it," Dorian reminded him.

"Is that so," said Bull, humming. He squeezed Dorian's hand before drawing his own back, fingers drifting along Dorian's arm and down his chest, to his belly. He flattened his palm there. "If we're fucking, I want a bed."

Little touches like this would be the end of him one day. Bull hadn't even touched his cock yet, and Dorian still struggled to keep a steady grip on the stone wall. His fingers were damp with sweat. He bowed his head, rocking his hips against empty air.

"I like taking my time with you."

"Yes, I know," Dorian told the wall. He still wasn't used to that, even after all the time they'd spent together. Bull liked spending hours on him, drawing out his pleasure until Dorian begged for any release. "But you haven't fucked me properly in weeks."

Bull unfastened Dorian's trousers and pushed his hand inside, groping Dorian's cock through his smalls. A low moan escaped Dorian's throat before he could stop it.

"When we get back to Skyhold, I'll treat you right," Bull whispered against Dorian's ear. "You won't want to leave my bed."

Dorian snorted. Once he was in Bull's bed, he rarely wanted to leave. Bull was a skilled and generous lover, always putting Dorian's pleasure before his own, and Dorian never left unsatisfied. Tired, perhaps. Sore. Sweaty. Never disappointed. There was a certain amount of comfort in knowing that he could go to Bull's room and have their needs met. It was likely the closest thing he'd had to genuine intimacy in years.

Maker, that was bleak.

"Please," Dorian tried, as Bull tugged his trousers down over his hips. He arched into a warm hand, sighing. "You can do anything. Anything you want."

Bull exhaled sharply against Dorian's neck. "I don't bargain with sex."

"This isn't bargaining. It's a negotiation."

"Same shit," said Bull, chuckling. He fumbled with his own trousers. "Prettier word, though. Keep talking."

"I'll say all sorts of pretty things when you fuck me."

Bull didn't respond, or even move. It took Dorian a moment to realize that he was listening. He did, too, straining his ears for any sound.

Footsteps. Faint, but they were there.

Dorian grabbed at his trousers, tugging them up as he stepped to the side and away from Bull. Panic fluttered rapidly in his belly, making his hands tremble. Foolish thing to feel. Fucking _foolish_ , and he knew it. This was likely a servant or a guard, or another couple who had disappeared for some private fun, and they wouldn't care.

His hands still shook.

If Bull noticed, he didn't comment on it. He fixed his own trousers before he straightened Dorian's collar, careful not to touch the lovemarks. When he was satisfied, he held Dorian's cheek and wiped something away with his thumb.

Something constricted in Dorian's chest. He ignored it, even as his ribs ached.

"It's okay," Bull murmured, still rubbing his thumb along Dorian's cheek. "You're presentable."

Dorian batted his hand away. "I know."

This corridor was a dead end. They were right outside a storage room, so only servants would be coming this way, but the footsteps sounded heavy, and Dorian thought he heard steel. A guard rotation?

Dorian tugged his sleeves straight. There was no point in hiding. If they came this way, he and Bull would be spotted. Might as well cling to some measure of dignity.

From the other side of the corridor, a male voice hissed, "We're going the wrong way." Sounded annoyed. Dorian couldn't place the accent.

"No," said another voice. "Follow me."

The footsteps drew closer. Dorian was certain he heard armor clanking.

There was nowhere else to go. He stepped out of the shadows. Bull followed.

Halfway down the corridor, they met a group of armored soldiers, all wearing dark cloaks with golden pins at the throat. They ignored Dorian and watched Bull, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. A few carried torches. Only one had a bow, slung over her shoulder.

"Good evening," said Dorian, nodding curtly. He glanced over their armor, trying to spot an insignia that he recognized, but they wore none.

The man at the front held himself like a leader, so Dorian looked towards him. Light from the torches kept catching on the golden pin.

"Evening," the man said. His accent was vague enough that he could have been from anywhere.

Dorian's fingers twitched. He missed the comforting weight of a staff in his hands.

"What's the code," said Bull flatly.

One of the men flinched at his voice, which Dorian was certain he had pitched deeper on purpose. The leader studied Bull, long enough that the silence began to wail in Dorian's ears, and repeated, "The code."

Bull offered him a kind smile. Everything in his body language said _friend_ , but they would have to be imbeciles to believe it.

"I'm sure your employer drilled the changes into your head before you came here tonight."

There were several phrases the guards used to deter gate crashers and attempted assassinations, and they changed every hour. Even Sera could remember them all.

Dorian really wished he had his staff. Casting without it meant weaker spells, and a headache tomorrow morning.

These soldiers weren't Venatori. They didn't look or sound like they were from Tevinter, and the Venatori tended to make themselves known. Not the red templars, either. He would have smelled or seen the blighted lyrium on them. Likely hired hands, then. Sent to kill some noble or Trevelyan, or someone else in the Inquisition. Or they were his father's mercenaries, and there was a carriage waiting outside the estate to take him back home.

All options were going to end in blood.

The leader looked to a short man at his left and nodded. The man opened and closed his mouth a few times before he stammered, "Orlais?"

"Surrender your weapons," said Bull quietly. He drew himself to his full height, looming over the intruders, and took a deliberate step forward.

"We have a job," said the leader. If he was afraid, he kept it hidden. "And we're going to complete it. Take your lover somewhere else—"

Bull didn't react, but Dorian flinched. The archer smirked and glanced at the ground, giggling to herself.

"—and pretend you never saw us."

Tension was tightening over Bull's shoulders. Dorian took a step back.

"That's not gonna happen," Bull replied. He beckoned for the leader to kneel. "Surrender. I'll see that you're treated with kind—"

Bull ducked and raised his arm, grunting. Blood splattered onto the ground as he wrenched something from his arm—a dagger—and returned it. Dorian could only watch the blade land between a soldier's eyes. The man gasped, crumbling to the floor.

Then—

Chaos.

The corridor was cramped, lit only by the torches now burning on the floor. Dorian sent fire skating across the floor towards them, licking up their legs. He couldn't use anything bigger; there wasn't enough room, and he didn't want to injure himself or Bull.

Nine against two wasn't exactly a fair fight.

Dorian twisted his fingers until a familiar warmth settled over their skin. It would only block glancing blows, but he didn't have the strength for anything larger. He needed to save that for his fire, which still cracked and hissed along the floor.

"Kill the mage!" a man shouted, swinging his sword wildly. Bull grabbed him by the face and smashed his head into the wall. His skull cracked, leaving a chunky smear against the stone, and his sword clattered to the ground.

Eight.

Three charged Bull. He caught two, but one slid between his legs and made a grab for Dorian, who thrust hexed lightning into his chest and sent him to the ground. There was a grim _crack_ , followed quickly by another, and two soldiers slumped over, necks twisted.

Five.

Bull took a sword in the shoulder. He grabbed his assailant's throat, slamming their foreheads together. The man fell limp, eyes rolling back in his head, and likely died. Blood trickled from both of Bull's arms.

Four.

Lightning still cracked across a dead man's armor. Dorian wrenched the sword from his fist and pushed the hilt into Bull's hand.

Three.

Someone was weeping.

A horribly wet _pop_ filled the room as Dorian's spell burst free from a corpse's ribcage. The smell was worse than the sound, especially in such a confined space. A woman on her hands and knees lurched forward, heaving, until the hex reached her. Magic prickled over Dorian's skin, tickling the back of his neck.

Two.

Bull shifted his weight and eyed the last soldiers. The sword, looking small enough to be a child's toy, hung limply from his hand. Lightning hissed and cracked between Dorian's fingers.

Slick fingers grabbed Dorian's ankle, yanking—

White-hot pain exploded behind Dorian's eyes when he hit the floor. The back of his head was damp—blood? Yes, blood. He wasn't sure whose it was. His, probably, because more pain shot through his skull, lingering thickly behind his eyes.

"Dorian?"

Bull. He sounded worried. Always worrying, that one.

Groaning, Dorian kicked blindly at his attacker and tried to summon fire in his palm. Only smoke slipped through his fingers.

"Dorian," said Bull again, followed by a wet, crunching sound. A punch.

Still two soldiers. No—three. Dorian curled his fingers, trying to conjure lightning. The spell fizzled as it touched the air.

"Mage," his attacker croaked. He was bleeding steadily from his temple, and it looked like his leg was broken. "They didn't say—they didn't say mages."

Dorian couldn't think up a clever retort. His head was pounding too much. He kicked, but the man grabbed his heel and swung a dagger at Dorian's thigh, which he just barely managed to avoid by rolling onto his side. The dagger scraped against the stone and clattered to the floor, and Dorian kicked once more. This time, he connected, and the man choked wetly before he slumped over.

Where was—

"Bull," Dorian tried, blinking. Light from the torches danced over the wall, doubly bright when he closed his eyes. The lump on the back of his head throbbed. "Bull?"

There was a snarl, and then—someone hit the ground.

Dorian opened his eyes and saw that Bull wasn't moving.

The tip of a sword protruded from his back, red and dripping.

Bull gasped.

The blade twisted. Shifted. Twisted again.

Dorian scrambled to his feet, as though there was something he could do. Dizziness swept over him, sending him stumbling forward. His vision tunneled.

The blade was gone. Blood bloomed over the wound.

No. No, no—

A gruesome _crunch_ broke the silence. The remaining man dropped, his throat crushed. His eyes were mostly white and empty, and he still clutched the red sword in both hands.

"Shit," said Bull. He touched his stomach and shuffled in a circle, turning to face Dorian.

And stumbled.

Dorian tried to catch him and nearly managed it, hands slipping over the wet skin. He fumbled at the wound, trying to apply pressure. That was what people were supposed to do for major wounds like this: apply pressure. Stop the bleeding. He dug his fingers into Bull's side, pushing his palms against the steady flow of blood. Bull's hands fell away.

And next—

There was nothing he could do. Even if he was carrying bandages, that wouldn't be enough. His hands were already soaked in blood, and Bull was swaying in place. _Vivienne_ , Dorian thought. He needed Vivienne or Trevelyan, or a surgeon. Someone. Anyone but him. He assisted with amputations, sometimes, but that was only because his fire was quick and clean. Never anything with this much blood. Never a gut wound. And it smelled _foul_. Poison? Possibly. Dorian didn't know much about poison, except not to touch it.

A deep chuckle echoed throughout the corridor. Dorian jerked his head up and saw that Bull's face was pinched with pain under a forced smile. His shoulder was wounded, too. Not as badly, but blood still trickled down his arm, landing on the back of Dorian's hands.

 _Cole_ , Dorian shouted internally, hoping that the boy could hear him somehow.

No one appeared. There were no footsteps. No shouts.

"This is more blood than I'm used to," said Bull, still chuckling. He covered Dorian's hands, holding them tighter against the gaping hole in his belly. "Are they dead?"

Dorian wrenched his eyes away from the blood for a moment to look at the corpses. "Yes."

"All of them?"

"Yes," Dorian repeated. Blood was still flowing, and he wasn't strong enough to carry a qunari to the other side of the estate. How long would it take him to reach a healer? But he couldn't leave Bull alone—

"Hey, it's okay," Bull murmured. Horrible, hysterical laughter bubbled in Dorian's chest. Bull would be the type to comfort another while he died. "Did anyone get you?"

"No," Dorian tried, but the word was trapped in his throat, and all that came out was a guttural noise. He swallowed and tried again, pushing at the open wound. There was blood on their boots. "You kept killing them before anyone could get close."

Bull nodded. His eye was bleary, unfocused. "I remember."

"I'm," said Dorian, but the words wouldn't come. This wasn't something he could fix. He stared at the wound, wishing he knew how to close it. "You're bleeding."

Bull ignored the obvious comment. He didn't even laugh as he leaned down, groaning, and pressed his mouth to Dorian's temple. "Go."

" _Go_?" Dorian repeated. His voice bounced around the corridor, too loud and shrill. He should have been embarrassed by it, but the red staining his arms proved a sufficient distraction. "You want me to leave?"

The wound was bleeding too much, and Bull was weakening. What would happen if Dorian wasn't here to help stem the blood? And he couldn't—no, he couldn't leave. There might be others trying to attack the estate, and Bull couldn't fight in a cramped corridor with one hand against his belly. If Dorian came back and found him, dead and empty—

"Boss has to know," said Bull. His mouth brushed against Dorian's forehead as he spoke. "There're too many civilians here."

"I," said Dorian, rapidly aware of the swelling in his throat, "can't leave you. I—"

 _Won't_ , he meant to say, but the words died before they reached his lips.

Bull chuckled. He lifted one hand and patted Dorian's cheek, smearing blood over his skin in the process. Dorian winced.

"I told you," Bull murmured. He drew Dorian closer and leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. "It's okay. I have a lot of blood. It'll take a long time for me to lose it all."

"Right," said Dorian faintly, but he couldn't move. Bull's blood was terribly warm and sticky under his palms. His stomach rolled. "I'll find—Trevelyan. Vivienne. Whoever I see first."

Southern mages were always skilled in healing. It was probably a requirement in their sad little Circles. Dorian wished he'd apprenticed with a healer, if only to learn the basics. He could do nothing with Bull until he was just a dead mound of skin and bones.

Something inside him shrieked at the thought. Dorian buried it.

Bull leaned back. His breathing was sharp and loud through his nose, and he didn't object when Dorian caught him by the elbow to steady him.

"Down, yes?" Dorian asked, jerking his head at the floor. "Would that be better?"

Bull nodded, so Dorian helped him slide down the wall to sit on the floor. He grimaced and shifted around, clutching his bleeding belly.

"Here," said Dorian, as he unbuttoned his jacket and shrugged it off his shoulders. He crouched down and pushed it against the wound. "Oh, stop making that face. I'll go. I just want to be sure—"

"This is new," Bull interrupted. He thumbed the fabric, frowning, as though he wasn't staining it with his blood.

For _fuck's_ sake. Dorian ground his teeth together and snapped, "I can buy another jacket."

"No, I'll buy it," said Bull faintly. He stared at his belly, head lolling on his shoulders, and sheer panic shot through Dorian's veins.

Bull was often the first to bleed and always the last to complain about it. He fought bare-handed sometimes, for _fun_. He didn't get knocked down, and he was never quiet, even with fresh scars on his skin. When he was wounded, he would curse and laugh and promise to kill three more next time. He didn't sit quietly, staring at his own blood.

It had never really occurred to Dorian that Bull would suffer such a deadly blow.

"I'll be back soon," said Dorian quickly, desperate to get that last thought out of his mind. He swooped in for a last—no, no, _another_ —brief kiss. Bull's chest rumbled against his. "I will, I—"

"I'm not going anywhere," Bull murmured. A faint smile twisted over his face. "C'mon. Get going."

Dorian kissed him again, hands traveling up the blood-smeared belly to hold his face. He refused to consider this a last kiss, but that didn't make rising to his feet any easier. "I _will_ be back soon."

"Don't worry," said Bull. He shifted his hold on Dorian's jacket, grimacing. "I've had worse."

That had to be a lie. Dorian had never seen so much blood—

Footsteps.

Dorian turned on his heel and leapt forward, fire curling in his palm as pain split his skull in two. Behind him, Bull's hand hit the floor with a quiet _thump_. It sounded like he was trying to stand up. Dorian searched the muddy darkness for a shape or a sound and considered picking up a sword.

To his relief, it was Trevelyan who emerged from the shadows. She carried a conjured blade in one hand and her staff in the other, and a simple satchel hung over her shoulder, clinking faintly as she jogged barefoot down the corridor. Her dress was ripped down the sides, presumably so she could run. Four guards followed. Two returned the way they came when Trevelyan ordered it, and the others kept watch at the opposite end of the corridor.

Dorian shook the flames free and turned around, cursing when he saw that Bull was still struggling to stand. He eased him back onto the floor and pressed the jacket against the wound. Behind him, Trevelyan's footsteps slowed to a halt.

"How," Dorian demanded.

"Cole found me," Trevelyan replied, as the conjured blade faded away. Her gaze flicked between them, lingering on Bull's stomach and Dorian's cheek. "Hello, Bull. You still awake?"

Bull nodded, grunting. He covered Dorian's hand, holding it closer.

"Stabbed, yes?" Trevelyan continued. She lifted the satchel over her head, letting it drop to the ground, and crouched down beside Dorian. He heard a faint sound, almost like a sizzle, and then she flung something at Bull's belly that made the skin under Dorian's hand flutter. "I need to see."

"No," Dorian said, as she tried to nudge his hand away from the bloody hole. "No, no—it's bad, I can't—"

Trevelyan grabbed his wrist and forced his hand away, ignoring his protests. Bull watched, blinking, as light from her hands flowed down into him.

"I've stopped the bleeding, but only for a few minutes," Trevelyan explained. She shoved the jacket off to the side and held her palm over Bull's belly, frowning. "All right. Bull, I want you on your back."

"Now's not the time, boss," said Bull through clenched teeth. Trevelyan didn't even blink, and Dorian snorted. "Oh. Nothing? I get nothing for that?"

Dorian grabbed Bull's shoulder and struggled to pull him away from the wall. "It was a bad joke."

"I'm laughing on the inside," Trevelyan assured him.

Together, she and Dorian managed to ease Bull away from the wall and onto his back. He groaned and gazed up at them, blinking, but his eye was unfocused. Trevelyan knelt beside him, glancing between his belly and the blood on the floor. She touched his wrist, counting under her breath, while Dorian stood like a fool, unable to do anything.

Something brushed against his elbow. He flinched, reeling away, but it was only Cole.

"Hello," said Cole. He tipped his head to the side, peering at Trevelyan. "Blackwall and Cassandra are still searching, and Sera is setting up traps with Varric. Vivienne says everyone is safe in the ballroom."

"Good work," Trevelyan murmured, and Cole beamed. She flattened her palm over Bull's stomach, murmuring to herself. An agonizing thirty seconds later, she added, "Yes. Yes, I can mend this."

Dorian's heart leapt into his throat. Bull nodded, his eye fluttering shut.

"He says thank you," said Cole quietly.

"Can I," said Dorian, swallowing the next word. He couldn't help. He was only useful to the dead.

But Trevelyan said, "Lyrium," and indicated the satchel, so he picked it up and reached inside for a flask. She downed it quickly, dropped the empty flask on the floor, and placed her hand over Bull's chest. Her fingers curled and tightened around the staff, which she tapped against the stone floor. A faint glow emanated from the tip.

"Sit with me," Trevelyan ordered, and Dorian did. "Cole, watch for trouble."

Cole nodded. There were daggers in his hands now, dangling loosely from his fingers. "Yes."

"Bull, listen to me," said Trevelyan in a firm and familiar tone. It always made Dorian think he should fix his collar and stand a bit straighter. "This will hurt."

Bull groaned, his head lolling to the side. His horns scraped against the stone. "How bad?"

"Well, you aren't going to enjoy it."

"Ah, shit," said Bull, sighing. His jaw tightened. "Pin me down. I'll move around too much."

"It would be easier to put you to sleep," Dorian pointed out. "I know you don't like that, but—"

"No, you're right."

"Obviously," said Dorian, scowling at how quickly Bull agreed. They'd had this argument before. Whenever Bull injured himself severely enough to require stitches or surgery, he preferred a bottle of liquor rather than a poppy concoction or a mage's spell. _The old-fashioned way_ , he called it. Dorian preferred _archaic_. "Has this been done to you before—? Of course not. Why use magic when you can bite a stick and scream yourself hoarse."

"Not really the time for a lecture," Trevelyan murmured.

Bull lifted his hand, waving dismissively. "Do it."

"All right," said Dorian, nodding. Having a task to complete calmed his wild thoughts, if only for a moment. He turned, but Cole's shadow fell over his back and a flask of lyrium appeared at his shoulder before he could reach for the satchel.  "This shouldn't hurt. You might feel like you're falling, but don't—"

He paused to drink the entirety of the flask, then handed it back to Cole.

"—worry." The lyrium spread, quicker than he was accustomed to. The roof of his mouth itched. "You won't be moving at all."

"It's okay," said Bull quietly. When Dorian touched his forehead, he opened his eye and glanced up, mouth twisting into a crooked smile. "I trust you."

The words were spoken simply, but they carried a heavy weight. Bull had never told him that before. Dorian had, when his wrists were bound to the bed and Bull's clever hands danced over his skin, or when enemies circled and Bull's back was steady and strong against his. A certain degree of trust was implied, since they traveled and fought together, and yet Bull had never spoken those words aloud. Dorian had never expected him to.

A thick lump rose in his throat. He ignored it and flattened his palm over Bull's forehead, focusing on the lone eye instead of the bright eyepatch. It was too lurid, too _red_ , and Dorian kept expecting blood to seep from underneath.

There had been a time when Bull would turn if Dorian approached from the left. He wished he could remember when that had changed.

"Aren't you sweet," said Dorian, trying to keep his voice light. He used his thumb to close Bull's eye.

"Now," Trevelyan ordered, so Dorian bowed his head.

"All right," he said, concentrating. The Fade began to whisper and sing. "Count backwards from ten for me."

"Ten," said Bull. His left hand curled against the floor. Blatant pain twisted over his face now, and that was more worrying than anything else. "Nine. Eight. Seven—"

Dorian grasped the maimed hand, squeezing tightly. Blood was warm and sticky between their palms, but Trevelyan's gaze was heavier, lingering on their joined hands.

"Six," Bull continued, squeezing back. "Five…four…three…"

His fingers fell limp. Dorian's stomach dropped out, but he tugged his hand free and kept the other against Bull's forehead.

"Well done," Trevelyan murmured. She dropped her staff, letting it roll away, and inhaled a long breath. Her skirts pooled around her like liquid, soaking up the blood. "Oh, Bull. I'm so sorry."

She forced her other hand into the wound.

A wretched sound erupted from Bull's throat, and his eye snapped open. Panicked, Dorian slammed another spell into his skull—too hard, and far too quickly, because Bull groaned and stilled almost immediately. His eye rolled back and his mouth hung open, limp and damp with spittle. Nausea churned in Dorian's stomach. He snapped his hand back to his side, watching Bull's eyelid twitch.

"It's all right," said Cole. He crouched on the floor behind Bull's head, hugging his knees. "He's not afraid."

"Well," said Dorian, swallowing, and couldn't manage anything else. He fumbled for Bull's maimed hand again, holding it between his palms. It was a foolish comfort, but he needed to feel Bull's skin against his.

He tried to focus on Trevelyan's work.

Whatever she was doing was a mystery to him. She didn't speak, and her hand moved slowly inside the wound. Casting—Dorian could sense that much. He peered closer and saw something that wasn't blood or skin. Innards? Hot bile rose in his throat at the thought. He clamped his teeth together and swallowed, but that was worse, _far_ worse—

Cole appeared at Dorian's side, holding a helmet. He thrust it under Dorian's chin.

Dorian managed to give his gratitude before he leaned over and vomited. Metal and blood was thick in the air, especially when he bowed his head. The smell of sick lingered in his nostrils. At least he was only distantly aware of the pain in his head now.

"I apologize," Dorian mumbled. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder. Cole disappeared with the helmet.

Trevelyan didn't look up from her work. "It's—" She paused, grunting. A horrible, wet _squelch_ ricocheted around the corridor. "It's all right."

Dorian's stomach rolled again. He kept his eyes fixed on Bull's face.

Eventually, Trevelyan whispered, "Almost done."

Dorian chanced a look at Bull's belly. Thankfully, the wound was nearly closed. It looked like a simple scrape, not a gaping hole. Trevelyan dragged her fingers along his ribs, guiding the skin into stitching itself back together. She made it look so _simple_.

"Almost done," Dorian repeated, but Bull didn't stir.

Trevelyan continued to work until the light in her other palm faded. She bowed her head, sighing. Her arms were trembling.

"Impressive," Dorian said, which was an understatement.

"Thank you." Trevelyan's voice was stiff and clipped. She touched his head, gently tipping it forward. "You're next."

While Trevelyan inspected the wound on the back of his head, Cole crouched beside him and wiped the blood off his cheek. He attempted to clean Dorian's clothing next, but it was no use. Most of the blood had already dried or sunk deeply into the fabric, clinging like an adhesive.

"There," said Trevelyan, settling back on her heels. The warmth across Dorian's skull faded. "Fixed."

Dorian rubbed the back of his head, fingers skimming over newly healed skin. "Now what?"

"He's not awake," said Cole, his eyes on Bull. "Can you fix that, Dorian?"

"I shouldn't," Dorian answered. Bull had already broken through one stunning spell, and ending another might leave lasting damage. Too many blows to the head was dangerous, even magic ones. "He ought to wake naturally. I don't want to risk injuring him."

Trevelyan pushed herself to her feet, sighing. "I really doubt we can carry a qunari."

*

They managed to carry Bull back to his room without much trouble, despite the terrible ache pinching in Dorian's back. The guards followed them to the guest wing, two in front and two behind, while Dorian hissed curses and Trevelyan murmured orders.

Inside, there were empty plates by the bed, resting on top of spare eyepatches and books. A pair of spare boots lined up at the door, and a training sword and shield in the corner. His favorite axe hung from a weapon stand. Night air whistled through the open window, but the room still smelled like oils and the horn powder Bull favored.

Dorian stared at the bed, remembering all the hours—days, likely—in the room above the Herald's Rest. Bull's clever fingers darting over his skin. His mouth. The way he sighed when Dorian touched him.

If Cole hadn't been listening, and if Trevelyan hadn't arrived soon enough—

Dorian would never have heard Bull laugh again. Or seen his smile, or felt his touch, or heard him sing with his boys, or groaned at one of his puns. The thought struck him like a physical blow, and he nearly stumbled with it.

"Slowly," said Trevelyan, as they reached the bed. "Here, just—there. Good. Let's move him."

She pushed and pulled on Bull's shoulders while Dorian lifted his legs, wincing as his fingers got caught on the metal brace. It took a minute, but eventually, Bull was lying down in the center of the bed.

He looked too still.

Dorian sucked in a quick breath, unable to look away from the dried blood smeared over Bull's stomach and the open wound on his shoulder. A wave of dizziness crashed through his skull, hard enough that he had to catch his balance on the bed. The sheets scratched against his fingertips as he squeezed his eyes shut, willing his balance to right itself.

"That's more than enough," Trevelyan was saying. She sounded amused.

Dorian jerked his head up. She was bent over the bed, wrapping a cloth around Bull's shoulder. Cole lingered behind her, his arms full of bandages. He deposited them on the bedside table when Trevelyan nodded.

Bull didn't move.

Gut wounds were never pretty, particularly when one's insides were torn to pieces, and almost always fatal without a proper healer. It was a slow and agonizing death, one that Dorian had witnessed before. Had been the cause of a few, too. At least one, tonight.

Too many people had died in the cellar.

That was never something he particularly enjoyed. It was something that needed to be done, unfortunately, and it was easier to make offhand references to death than remember how many people he had killed. Crafting an intricate spell, working the very fabric of the Fade to create something new and entirely his own—that was satisfying. Using it to end another's life was not, even if it had been to protect his own life. And Bull's.

Those soldiers might have succeeded in infiltrating the estate if they hadn't slipped away for a bit of fun.

"Dorian—"

Bull had bled and laughed and sighed—and told Dorian that it was okay, even as his blood spilled between their fingers to soak the floor. Even though he had nearly died, all because Dorian wanted a hidden place to fuck.

Trevelyan's firm voice cut through his thoughts. " _Dorian_. Sit down."

"I'm fine," said Dorian. Perhaps if he said it out loud, he could convince himself. "Really. I'm not the one with a hole in my belly."

"He doesn't have one, either," said Cole, as he dragged a chair over towards the side of the bed. He glanced at Bull's belly, frowning. "Well, except for that one, but everyone has one of those."

Trevelyan guided Dorian towards the chair, ignoring his protests. When he sat, she touched his head, smoothing the hair that curled around his ears. A horrible lump rocketed through his throat.

"I'm fine," Dorian repeated, but his voice was too small. He bowed his head, sucking in a quick breath.

"It's all right," Trevelyan murmured. She lowered her hand to his shoulder, squeezing. "I know."

For a few minutes, they were silent, eyes on Bull. Cole fidgeted, tugging on his sleeves.

"He should wake up in a few hours," said Dorian. His spells usually didn't last this long, but he had flung far too much into it. "Are you staying?"

Trevelyan shook her head, saying, "I need to speak to our guests," but she didn't move.

"I doubt he's going anywhere," said Dorian, and tried to smile. It twisted sharply into his cheeks.

"I know. I should—" She stopped talking, a frustrated noise rising in the back of her throat. She yanked on her skirts and twisted the bloodied fabric in her fist until it burned away. What remained was in tatters, cut just above her knees. "—go see what needs to be done." She tossed the burned fabric into the corner and rubbed her hands together, spilling ash and dust onto the floor. "Will you stay?"

Dorian nodded. He couldn't imagine leaving Bull's side now. Maker's _balls_ , he was a step away from clutching at his hand and begging him to wake up.

Trevelyan straightened, her shoulders squaring into a tight line, and nodded. "Cole will keep you company."

Cole appeared at the foot of the bed and stared at Dorian, long enough that Dorian's neck prickled. He stilled, wondering what Cole was prodding around for, and braced himself for whatever he would find and announce.

"I won't," said Cole. When Trevelyan turned to him, frowning, he added, "I meant—yes. Yes, I will stay."

Trevelyan glanced over at Dorian, who shrugged.

"Right," said Trevelyan slowly. She squeezed his shoulder again. "There are guards outside, if you need anything. I'll come back once everyone is home safely. If he wakes up before I return, tell him to stay in bed."

Once she left, Dorian slumped deeper in the chair, watching Bull breathe. He shouldn't have sat down. A deep ache had already settled in his spine, tugging on his shoulders and spreading through his legs. He bowed his head, sighing, and covered his face with his hands—and recoiled, cursing, when he smelled the blood.

His hands were heavy with it, the red stuff clinging like a thick coating of mud. Dorian grimaced and summoned water, ignoring the pain expanding in his skull, and rubbed it between his palms. Pale red liquid dripped between his fingers onto the floor, spilling over his dirty boots.

When he was finished, Cole dangled a bandage in front of his face. Dorian took it, nodding his thanks, and dried his hands. The cloth was faintly pink when he tossed it on top of Trevelyan's burned skirts.

He wondered what would have happened if she hadn't come to the cellar. If—

"Don't," said Cole. He tilted his head and leaned forward, looking like a scarecrow caught in the wind. "You're thinking in circles, and that makes it worse. _If_ always leads to sorrow."

Well, wasn't that the truth.

Dorian nodded, simply to end the conversation, and slid his chair closer to the bed. He buried his face in his hands, waiting.

*

Time passed. Dorian wasn't sure how much. He dozed off, slipping away for a few minutes only to awake with a start. His head still ached, and all he could do was watch Bull and count each breath. Cole's eyes were heavy on his own.

Dorian shuddered. Every one of his thoughts—every emotion, every recollection—was probably noted and stored until they returned to Skyhold, when Cole would browse through what he had collected and determine how to fix it. He always did this, even when Dorian told him not to. The spirit never listened when Dorian told him that it wasn't worth the time and trouble and _really, Cole, stop bringing up fond memories of Father in the middle of the Dales_ —

The memory faded as Dorian inhaled sharply through his nose, holding his breath until his chest began to burn. He wished he could be angrier about Cole's blatant ignorance of privacy. When Cole had plucked long-buried memories and shared them with the group, he had been furious, but that slowly faded away. The boy was a spirit, still learning how this world worked—and eager to be taught, and happy to be corrected. All Cole thought about was helping and fixing what was wrong, even when the problem was rotted to the core. Dorian couldn't fault him for that.

The door swung open. Dorian jerked and glanced over his shoulder, expecting Trevelyan.

Quick footsteps pounded against the floorboards as Sera bolted across the room to throw her arms over the chair. She buried her face in his hair and looped her arms around his chest, squeezing.

"You're good, yeah?" Sera asked, her voice muffled. She sniffed, and Dorian felt her scowl. "'Cause you're all—" She lifted her head, spitting as her nose wrinkled in disgust. "You're all _red_." She gripped and tugged at his shirt, then opened her palm. Dried blood stuck to her skin.

"Yes," said Dorian absently, brushing her hands aside. "I’d noticed."

"It's blood," Cole added. Sera ignored him and stepped closer, knees knocking against the side of the bed. She peered at Bull, her hands curling into fists.

"Is he," she said and stopped, breath hitching in her throat.

"He'll wake up soon," Dorian replied flatly. _Soon_. What a terrible word. It meant nothing.

Sera exhaled loudly, her shoulders slumping with the force of it. She bent over the bed and hesitated for a brief moment before she reached to touch Bull's chest, then snapped her hand back like the skin was hot. Her face brightened with a smile. "Yeah, still breathing."

Dorian wished he could borrow some of her optimism. He nodded, sighing, and made a face when she ruffled his hair.

"Clean yourself up," Sera told him. She wiggled her fingers towards his arms and headed for the door, adding, "You smell like dead things."

"Might have something to do with the corpses in the cellar," Dorian called, but she had already left.

It was quiet again. Dorian stared at Bull, who did nothing but breathe.

A few minutes later, Sera returned with Blackwall, Cassandra, and Vivienne. Trevelyan followed, pausing to murmur something to the guard at the door.

"Hello, darling," Vivienne greeted. Her heels clicked sharply as she walked over. She nodded at Dorian and sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand over Bull's belly. For a long minute, a faint light emanated from her palm, and then she met Trevelyan's eyes and nodded. "Excellent work, Inquisitor. I don't feel any scarring, internal or otherwise."

Trevelyan's posture straightened with Vivienne's praise. She murmured her thanks before catching Dorian's eye, asking, "All right?"

"I'm fine," Dorian answered. Bull's chest still rose. Nothing else mattered right now, not even the way he looked.

"You _look_ dreadful," Vivienne countered. Dorian knew she was taking in the blood all over his clothes and the dark circles under his eyes. The roaring in his head grew louder, deafening in this tiny room, and he couldn't find it in himself to care about what she thought.

"About the front gate," said Blackwall. He and Trevelyan launched into a discussion about guard rotations, which Dorian had no interest in.

There was far too much noise. People were murmuring to each other, Sera's rapid giggle rising above it all, and guards continued to walk the halls, their boots loud on the flagstones. Dorian could hear every piece of their armor clanking with each step. He ignored it, focusing on the steady rise and fall of Bull's chest.

"Mercenaries, most likely," Cassandra said.

Vivienne hummed. "I agree."

They continued to discuss the attack. Dorian watched Bull's eyelid flutter, hope twisting bitterly in his chest.

"Dorian," said Blackwall slowly. "What were you two doing in the cellar?"

His voice was tremendously loud over everything else. Dorian looked up, startled, as Blackwall seemed to regret his question with each passing second. Cassandra hid her face behind one hand, her shoulders hunched together, and Vivienne said, "Oh, you _precious_ thing," before she chuckled, shaking her head. Even Sera looked mortified on his behalf.

Of course. They all knew, now. They couldn't see the dark bruises on his neck, hidden under a tight collar, but they knew.

Wild laughter escaped Dorian's throat. The sound thundered in his ears, crashing against the pounding in his skull, and a dark flush colored Blackwall's cheeks. Trevelyan's mouth twisted into a sympathetic grimace.

"Ah," said Blackwall. His eyes flicked away from Dorian, towards the floor. "Right. Sorry."

"Are you interested in the dirty details?" Dorian asked. He rested his elbow along the chair's arm and leaned closer, gathering his words around him like armor. "Or perhaps just a general idea of what two men might do together in the dark?"

"Sorry," Blackwall repeated, wincing. Seeing the mortification spread over his face was almost worth the loss of Dorian's privacy. "Forget I said anything."

Cole frowned. He tipped his head back, gazing at Blackwall from under the brim of his hat. "You're not supposed to ask about things like that. It's rude."

More laughter bubbled in Dorian's chest. The little spirit was learning. It was adorable, even in light of his horror.

"Right?" said Cole, sounding a little lost. He glanced at Trevelyan and relaxed when she nodded. "Oh. Good."

Blackwall met Dorian's eyes for half a second before he looked away again. Nothing else to be said, then. Dorian settled back into the chair, his eyes back on Bull. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Blackwall bow his head and grimace.

Cassandra cleared her throat and looked towards Trevelyan. "Perhaps someone intended to attack Duke Bastien?"

"Unlikely," said Vivienne. Dorian ignored the conversation.

Everyone knew.

Perhaps they had known all along. No one seemed surprised—except for Blackwall, but he had a rather narrow focus on anything that wasn't a Grey Warden. Had he and Bull been overt in some way? Doubtful. He had spent his youth keeping his desires hidden from the public eye, and he knew he was quite adept at it. Still, he searched his memories, trying to recall a time when he and Bull might have been affectionate with one another outside of their quarters. He couldn't think of anything.

Sera slept in the Herald's Rest, so she could have seen Dorian going in and out of Bull's room. Though if she had, Dorian assumed she would have announced it to anyone within shouting distance. Sera still hadn't quite grasped the concept of subtlety. If Vivienne had discovered their affair before tonight, Dorian doubted she would have said anything beyond a mild comment—which she might have, and Dorian had missed the insinuation. She did seem to find the whole thing amusing, but Dorian attributed that to Blackwall's immense discomfort.

He glanced at her, wondering if she was disappointed in him. She appeared to like Bull, but it was hard to tell, sometimes. An Orlesian's mask was always present.

That was a troubling thought. Dorian tried to forget it and looked back to Bull, willing him to wake.

He didn't.

Some minutes later, Dorian heard Varric and Solas approach. He was unable to make out their words, but he recognized the cadence of their voices.

Varric was chuckling as he entered the room. "You slept through a decent fight."

"Apparently," said Solas. His clothing was loose and wrinkled, and there was a softness around his eyes. He approached the bed and held out his palm towards Bull, fingers stretched. "He feels…" He paused, tilting his head. "Healthy?"

"He is," Dorian replied. "He's sleeping through one of my spells."

Solas turned, fixing his eyes on Dorian, and frowned. "You're nearly drained."

Dorian shrugged. Out of habit, he flexed his fingers, twisting smoke along his knuckles until the pain in his skull stretched too far. Grimacing, he shook the smoke free. At least he would be fine by tomorrow.

"How'd the Bull _drain_ you?" Sera asked, not bothering to hide a smirk. Dorian flinched and wished he hadn't, especially when Blackwall reached over to cuff the back of her head. She smacked his hand away, cursing. "Hey! You're the one who started asking silly questions."

Blackwall flushed deeply. "I didn't ask— _that_."

"Nearly did," Sera replied. She shoved her fingers into his ribs. "You curious? Maybe someone _should_ show you bananas."

"Sera," said Blackwall helplessly, but that only made her laugh. It was a sharp sound, and more pain dug into Dorian's skull.

Trevelyan murmured something, but Dorian couldn't hear her over Vivienne and Cassandra's discussion about who could have attacked the estate. Sera dropped onto the edge of the bed, knee knocking into Dorian's, and scowled when Cole glanced in her direction. Her leg bounced, a constant movement just below Dorian's field of vision, and he had to rest his chin in his hand to block the sight. His eyelid was beginning to twitch.

"—asked for an autograph," said Varric, laughing, and Solas joined in, and Dorian—

Needed _silence_. That, and for Bull to wake up, and for this stupid panic to leave his bones. People knew, but this was not Tevinter. This was different. Hadn't Trevelyan told him so, after their lovely meeting with Father? She had. More than once.

Bull wasn't moving. Dorian could still the blood staining his palms. He wiped his hand against his knee, listening to Trevelyan say something about the front gate. Blackwall offered to go. Sera grabbed his arm and yanked herself up, nodding.

"Get some rest, Dorian," said Blackwall. A heavy hand fell on Dorian's shoulder, squeezing firmly. "You look tired."

"Yes," said Dorian, to fill the silence. He wasn't sure how much time had passed while he stewed in his own thoughts. "You, too."

Sera ruffled his hair again as she walked away.

"I want to investigate the bodies," said Vivienne. She touched Dorian's shoulder lightly, but it felt as warm as an embrace. Dorian covered her hand with his, and she nodded curtly. "Cassandra, will you accompany me?"

"Dorian," said Cassandra, not unkindly, but he waved her away. She followed Vivienne out of the room. Solas had a quiet word with Trevelyan before he trailed after them.

From behind Dorian's chair, Varric said, "Here," and dropped a flask in his lap.

Dorian picked it up and drank. It was horribly cheap, likely from Ferelden, and burned his throat raw. He coughed and grimaced before he emptied more liquor down his throat.

"Keep it," Varric told him.

"It's terrible."

"That's the point," said Varric, chuckling a little as he nudged Dorian's shoulder.

And then he was gone, and Dorian was left with Cole and Trevelyan again. He curled his fingers around the flask, watching Bull breathe.

"Don't forget to sleep," said Trevelyan. She picked up Bull's hand, holding it between her palms for a moment before placing it back on the bed.

Dorian tapped the flask. Whisky was still sour on his tongue when he said, "Nearly there."

Trevelyan turned around and stared at him, clearly worried. When he didn't look at her, she turned her gaze to Cole. "Come find me if any of you need something."

"Yes," said Cole, nodding.

With a final long look at Dorian, Trevelyan left, bare feet hardly making a sound against the floorboards.

The absence of sound eased the pain in his head somewhat, though it did nothing for the tight ache in his chest or the weariness hanging off his bones. Sleep tugged behind Dorian's eyelids. He slouched deeper in the chair, counting Bull's breaths.

*

The bed creaked. Dorian's eyes snapped open, but he saw nothing.

"The Iron Bull?" Cole asked. Dorian scrubbed at his eyes, trying to adjust to the dark.

Another creak. Something inside the Fade slipped, and a vague Cole shape appeared in the dark at the foot of the bed. He said, "It's all right," and walked around the bed, silent save for his voice. "You're safe."

"Thanks, kid," Bull croaked. He sounded tired, but the low rumble of his voice in the dark was a familiar comfort. "Dorian?"

"Yes," said Dorian. His voice was rough with sleep, and the word scraped against his throat. "I'm here."

Bull's hand slipped off the bed, searching blindly. He touched Dorian's knee.

Relief hurtled through Dorian's veins so suddenly that he felt dizzy with it. He struggled to sit up straight, unsure if he could stand or even speak. All the words he wanted to say crowded together in the back of his throat, disappearing when Bull murmured his name again. Bull was awake, with smooth skin where the hole used to be, and he was seeking Dorian's touch.

Dorian returned it, covering the hand with his. Heat rose in his cheeks, stinging his eyes, and he was grateful that Bull couldn't see it. He was grasping so clumsily, so _desperately_ , at another man's hand in the dark, and there was still that ancient part of him that told him to be guilty about it. At least Bull was squeezing back; that made the scathing voice in his head easier to ignore.

The hand slipped off his knee and touched his arm, then the inside of his elbow. Dorian flinched, oddly ticklish, and felt Bull's hand drift up to his shoulder, and then his neck. A palm cupped his cheek, and he turned to kiss the fingers that brushed against his mouth. The hand settled on the back of his neck.

Dorian leaned closer, so Bull didn't have to stretch so far. They stayed like that for a moment. Dorian's skin tingled from every little touch, and he couldn't speak. He didn't trust his voice.

"You're safe," Cole repeated. He perched on the end of the bed, hugging his knees. "They're all dead."

Bull didn't reply. His fingers rubbed small circles into Dorian's skin.

The urge to crawl into bed beside was overwhelming. The servants wouldn't care, and neither would Trevelyan. Cole might ask questions or lurk around the room, but that was hardly the worst thing Dorian had experienced while in bed with another man. He could. He _should_. Undoubtedly, Bull would appreciate it, and Dorian _wanted_ to curl up against that broad chest and feel the steady heartbeat under his palm.

But cowardice won in the end, so Dorian said, "Go back to sleep," and flung himself back into the chair and out of reach. Bull's hand still hung off the end of the mattress. He closed his eyes and ignored the pangs of guilt.

The bed shifted as Bull drew his arm back to his side. His silence roared in Dorian's ears, pressing hard on his throat, and he nearly suffocated under the weight of it.

After a moment, Bull cleared his throat. "Boss fixed me up?"

"Yes," Dorian answered. He slouched, folding his hands together on his belly, and rolled his shoulders until he was somewhat comfortable. "She says you need to stay in bed."

"Okay." Bull was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "Dorian."

"Yes?"

"You're okay?"

"Yes."

"Good," said Bull quietly. Dorian thought he heard a smile.

"Yes." Dorian twisted his fingers together, wishing he could forget the smell of blood. The tang of iron still lingered on his tongue. "Go back to sleep, Bull."

* * *

A sharp knock at the door roused Dorian from sleep.

He jerked, arms sliding off the chair, and looked at the bed. It was hard to overlook Bull, sprawled in the center of the bed, snoring, with one hand covering the missing scar on his belly. The other twitched absently against his side.

Warm sunlight from the open window spilled inside. Dorian squinted through it.

Another knock.

"Oh," said Cole, from the floor. He was sitting cross-legged, fingers tapping along his knees as he peered at the door. "I'll get it."

He disappeared. Outside, someone shrieked. It sounded a lot like Sera.

Dorian rested his elbows on his knees and bowed his head, sucking in a deep breath as sharp pain pinched down his spine. This chair wasn't an acceptable substitute for a bed. He should have slept on the floor, if he couldn't manage to sleep beside Bull.

He sighed, twisting his fingers together.

"Fuck!" Sera shouted, and cursed again. "Fuck you, _fuck you_!"

"Sorry," was Cole's response. Dorian hardly heard it.

Bull was alive. He looked calm, and relaxed, and he deserved every minute of rest.

 _I have a lot of blood_.

Dorian looked at his hands, remembering how the red clung to his skin.

It was difficult to imagine Bull dying. In time, it would happen. Probably sooner for someone like Bull, who seemed to view a dragon hunt in the same light as an afternoon hike. And a warrior ought to die in battle; that was the way the stories went, after all. But he was beyond mere strength and skill with a blade. Something as simple as a lucky stab in the dark shouldn't be the end.

_It'll take a long time for me to lose it all._

He would have, if Cole hadn't heard. If Trevelyan hadn't arrived soon enough—

The door swung open. Dorian glanced over his shoulder as Sera stumbled into the room with both hands clutching her hair, eyes wild and bright. Her clothes were twisted around her thin frame, wrinkled from sleep, and she was wearing only one shoe.

"Scared the piss out of me," she muttered, pursing her lips together. When she exhaled, strands of hair fluttered around her temples.

 _It's okay_. _I trust you._

Dorian gripped the chair's arms and pushed himself up, cursing as his knees and shoulders cracked. He needed to focus on something else. Anything. As long as he could distract himself from the way Bull had kissed his neck, and the way the blood soaked his hands—

He didn't want to remember any of it. Not right now.

"Good morning to you, too," said Dorian, swallowing a yawn. Sera cocked her head at him, frowning.

"What, didn't feel like snuggling in front of it?"

"I don't snuggle," Dorian replied. Maker's breath, he'd nearly forgotten that she knew. He wondered how long she would smirk and tease him, and if there was a way to dismiss her without sending her into a week-long sulk or finding his bedroll filled with snakes. Ignoring her was probably the best option. That worked, sometimes. "Do you mind watching him?"

"No," Sera answered, and plopped into his abandoned chair. She kicked her legs up onto the bed, crossing her ankles over Bull's thighs. "'s why I came in here, anyway. What're you doing?"

"I need to," said Dorian, his voice drifting off. He didn't know what he needed to do, but he knew he couldn't stay in this room. He might do something absurd, like curl up in bed next to Bull. Or weep.

He shuffled across the room, tugging aimlessly at his clothing to straighten it. Nausea rolled through his stomach when he remembered the bloody boots. There was still dried blood on his shirt, too. Underneath his fingernails. Bull's blood.

He had to stop and close his eyes for a moment, willing the nausea to fade away.

"Take it with you," Sera ordered, so Dorian beckoned for Cole to follow.

Cole did, and quietly. He shadowed Dorian out of the room, down the corridor, and into Dorian's quarters. Servants had already filled the bathtub with water, which Dorian heated with a quick spell. He disrobed quickly and kicked the bloodied clothes away before he sank into the tub.

"He did want to wash your back," said Cole, after Dorian had submerged his head and scrubbed the dried blood off his scalp. "But I don't think you'd be very clean after."

Dorian ducked his head into the water to hide the scowl and scrubbed violently at his hair. He didn't need to ask who Cole was referring to.

When he sat up and wiped the water off his face, Cole was still there.

"No, likely not," Dorian replied. He rested his arms on the sides of the tub and tipped his head back, closing his eyes. "Stop poking around for a bit, Cole. I'd like to rest."

"Okay," said Cole quietly, sounding embarrassed. He shuffled across the floor and sat, limbs knocking against the tub. "I'm sorry."

Dorian cracked one eye open. All he could see of Cole was the hat, poking up over the side of the tub.

"It's all right," he murmured, and closed his eyes again.

*

Later, with clean skin and fresh clothes, Dorian felt a bit better.

He spent the day in the library, playing chess with Cassandra and searching idly through Duke Bastien's books. Trevelyan brought him a midday meal, which they shared by an open window, and asked him to explain what had happened in the cellar before she and the guards arrived. He answered, detailing the intruders' voices and what they had said, and was relieved when she didn't inquire about anything else.

Trevelyan left him to his reading. An hour later, Sera wandered by, made several tasteless jokes about buggery, and then hugged him so tightly that he thought his chest would collapse. She disappeared as quickly as she had arrived, and Dorian was left alone again.

There was nothing here but books and dust. No one to crack jokes about Qunari invaders from the north, which Dorian kept waiting to hear from Sera or Varric. He had the quiet, and Bull was safe and alive, resting. That was what he wanted.

Alone, he could almost pretend nothing had happened.

*

When the sun was beginning to set, Cole appeared in the armchair beside his and said, "Hello."

"Hello to you, too," said Dorian. He glanced down at the book in his hands and realized that he couldn't remember anything about it. Not the title, or the past few sentences. "Have you come to check up on me?"

Cole hopped onto the side of the armchair, legs dangling. "Yes."

"Lovely," Dorian muttered, sighing. He closed the book and placed it on a nearby table.

"The Iron Bull is alone."

Dorian felt a peculiar tickle on the back of his neck. "And why are you telling me that?"

"Because," said Cole, his gaze like a quick jab in the ribs, "you want to see him, but you won't, because you think it's your fault. It feels different, now— _and if the damned idiot hadn't gone and nearly died, I never would've known_."

Each word made Dorian flinch, but there was no point in pretending. All he had done today was surround himself with books and trivial conversation, desperate to forget the way Bull's breath had stuttered in his chest. He would have to see him eventually, and sooner was better than later.

"Fine," Dorian muttered. Cole brightened, the sharp angles of his cheekbones disappearing into the smile. "Alone, you say? Varric's not listening in for something to use in his latest serial?"

"Alone," Cole repeated, and promptly disappeared.

Dorian sat for a long moment and tried to breathe, pulse thrashing wildly in his throat, before he left the library.

When he reached Bull's door, he stopped. There was a dark spot on the floor. Blood. Servants had been scrubbing this corridor all morning, but they must have missed this one. It probably came from his boots. Or Bull's belly. Trevelyan's hands. His own hands—

Dorian jerked his head up and forced himself to stare straight ahead. There was nothing he could do to change what had happened. There had been a fight, and their enemies had failed. Bull had been injured and treated, and Dorian was grateful to know he was alive and well.

It would be _marvelous_ if he could stop remembering, though.

Sighing, Dorian opened the door.

Inside, Bull was sitting in bed and reading. It looked like he'd bathed recently; the dark tattoos were gone, and the skin around his horns was smooth. Last night's sheets were gone, and he was back to wearing those terrible trousers. His usual eyepatch was in place.

He looked up and waved, smiling faintly, before returning to his book.

All the pent-up energy boiling inside faded away, replaced with a terrible growth in Dorian's chest. It was almost certainly a type of fondness, one that he had ignored time and again, and every inch of him ached with it. This was not love; it was a desperate, yearning affection, and he was clinging to it like a drowning man. He needed it. Craved it, especially when he remembered how the skin around the wound flexed and trembled against his fingers. How wet the blood had been. How empty Bull's eye had been when he was on the floor with Trevelyan's hand buried in his belly.

Dorian shoved the feeling somewhere deep. He closed the door, locking it.

Bull glanced up from his book and waited until Dorian approached the bed before saying, "Good to see you."

"And you," Dorian replied. He sat in his old chair, resting his arms along the sides. "I'm glad you aren't dead."

"Yeah?" Bull's mouth curved into a smile. He shut the book and placed it on the bedside table. "You would've missed me?"

His voice was light. Teasing. There was bright humor in his eye, and his smile was genuine. Dorian aimed to match his mood and said, "Yes, dreadfully," but he missed the mark in every respect. He spoke quietly, with far too much sorrow, and his words sapped all the joy from that crooked smile.

Bull was a part of Dorian's life now. The thought of losing him was simply unacceptable.

They saw each other almost every day, and traveled together for countless days and nights. He knew too many stories about the Chargers, what Bull preferred for breakfast, and how to apply the horn balm. Neither of them had pressed on the nature of their relationship, or even asked, but it had reached a certain degree of comfort. He had grown used to the idea that he could go to Bull's bed, and that he would be welcomed there. That Bull _wanted_ to see him. Wanted to be with him.

And now everyone knew.

"Hey," said Bull gently. He tipped his head to the side, trying to catch Dorian's eye. "Talk to me."

A peculiar panic churned in Dorian's belly, even though he felt no shame—certainly not for favoring men, and not for fucking one like Bull. It shouldn't have mattered if people knew. This was not Tevinter.

"Everyone knows now," said Dorian, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. He felt like he should explain _what_ it was that everyone knew, even though it was plainly obvious from the tone of his voice. And it wasn't like he and Bull shared many other secrets. "They figured it out."

"Oh," said Bull. He didn't sound upset, or even surprised. They could have been discussing the weather. "Okay. Sorry. I know that bothers you."

Dorian drummed his fingers along the chair's arms. It did bother him. He wished it didn't, but that wasn't something he could solve in a brief conversation. Particularly when his mind kept returning to the sword and the blood and the light slowly dimming in Bull's eye—and the horrible realization that whatever was building between them might be real, and Dorian couldn't stop its growth. Not on his side, at least.

"I don't care," Bull added, as if Dorian didn't know that already. "You can still call this off, though. I underst—"

"No," Dorian cut in, far too quickly. Bull looked amused by his answer, and he refused to be charmed by it. "No, I enjoy spending time with you."

Bull's grin was wide, stretching the scar across his mouth. "I do, too." He reached over and touched Dorian's knee, squeezing. "And hey, now they know I can land a hot piece like you."

Dorian allowed the touch. He pushed his knee into Bull's hand, feeling the fingers tighten. "Flatterer."

"Damn right," Bull said, still grinning.

The conversation shifted towards happier topics. The book Bull had been reading was classic Orlesian erotica, apparently, which was overly flowery and yet filthy enough to make Dorian bury his face in his hands as Bull recited passages from memory.

When Dorian had enough of milky breasts and throbbing rods, he mentioned food, knowing how much Bull missed the comfort of a tavern breakfast. He could sympathize. Bastien's cooks were talented, but he longed to eat something that hadn't been drowned in butter first. That lead to a story about Sera, who had been hiding her hair under a cap and serving Blackwall tea every afternoon, and he _still_ hadn't recognized her. Bull insisted that he had, and was only pretending to keep up the game for Sera; Dorian was certain that he hadn't noticed until the third or fourth day, and was too embarrassed to mention it by this point.

Eventually, the conversation slowed to a halt. Bull's hand still rested on Dorian's knee, warm and heavy. It felt nice to just sit and talk, like they usually did, even after everything that had happened.

"Oh," said Dorian, and cursed violently. "I haven't asked you how you're feeling."

Bull chuckled. He patted his belly, rubbing his thumb along the spot where the sword entered. "I know you were worrying. That's enough for me."

"I don't worry about you," Dorian lied. Bull's grin widened. "Tell me, though."

"I'm good," Bull replied. When Dorian blinked and stared, he shrugged. "Really."

Dorian didn't believe that for a second. Taking a hit or an insult was one thing; those could roll off Bull's back like water. But he couldn't take a near-death experience and quietly ignore it.

" _Really_ ," Bull repeated. He squeezed Dorian's knee. "I got hurt. And then I got better."

Of course he would describe being run through as _got hurt_.

Dorian stared at Bull's stomach, wondering what that kind of pain felt like. He was familiar with broken bones and watching magic stitch his skin back together, especially since he'd joined the Inquisition. Once, in his youth, he had the tips of his fingers reattached after a terribly embarrassing incident with a sword. But he had never been stabbed or experienced an internal injury like that. That amount of pain was inconceivable.

"What does it feel like?" Dorian asked, and immediately winced. "Sorry. Rude."

Thankfully, Bull didn't seem insulted. He traced a scar along his ribs—mercenary fight in Orlais, Dorian remembered—and answered, "Kinda sore. Like an old injury when it rains."

There were years of combat carved into Bull's skin. Very few parts of his body weren't scarred; Dorian wasn't sure how he could remember the history behind each mark. His back was the worst, with decades-old wounds buried under fresh scars. Dorian had only seen the empty eye socket a few times, but it always looked oddly small without the patch covering it. His maimed fingers were the closest thing to a missing limb, and there was a history of failed attempts along his biceps and thighs.

Dorian wanted this skin under his hands again.

"May I," he said, reaching hesitantly towards the bed.

Bull's face softened. He tipped his head to the side, smiling. "You don't have to ask."

"I thought it would be polite," Dorian muttered. He pushed himself out of the chair, catching Bull's hand as it slipped off his knee, and sat on the edge of the bed. He placed Bull's hand back on his knee, pretending to ignore the deep chuckle, and touched the healed skin.

They sat in silence as Dorian flattened his palm over Bull's belly. The familiar skin was warm to the touch. No blood.

"I wish there was a scar," said Bull. He squeezed Dorian's knee. "Can't have a good story without a scar."

A hollow sound slipped from Dorian's throat. It took him a moment to recognize his own laughter, and then everything in his stomach dropped in one fell swoop. They had been in that cellar because Dorian wanted to, and Bull had probably been too focused on keeping the enemies away from the delicate mage to notice the one brandishing a sword.

"You almost died," Dorian murmured. His fingers curled, nails digging into the thick skin.

"I didn't," Bull said, but all Dorian could remember was blood and a big hand on his cheek. Red, smearing over their skin.

 _I have a lot of blood_.

Dorian moved closer. He wanted to whisper something sweet, or lewd—or apologize, for guiding Bull into the cellar in the first place, but he couldn't come up with the words. A kiss would be better, so Dorian chose that, sighing when Bull covered the hand on his belly. Fingers danced across the back of his palm, then up his arm to his cheek.

It was a simple kiss. Dorian enjoyed those as much as the desperate ones that left him gasping, digging his fingers into another man's flesh. The hand on his cheek was heavy and warm, holding him with such care, and the lust that stirred was a familiar feeling. He let it grow, remembering the low rumble of the crowd outside a locked door and Bull's hands on his skin.

Guilt soon followed, for wanting something so base so soon after Bull was gutted. Dorian stiffened and drew back. Something flickered across Bull's face, but it was gone before Dorian could decipher it.

"I should apologize," Dorian began, and stopped when Bull's eye narrowed.

"For a kiss?" Bull's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile before he chuckled. "Nah. I like kissing you. That mustache tickles."

Dorian knew how to spot an attempt to change the subject. He ignored it and turned, kissing Bull's palm. Thick fingers curled against the side of his head. "For putting you in the cellar."

"Oh."

Bull's voice sounded too small. Hesitant. Dorian stilled, bracing himself for whatever he would say.

What came next happened slowly, as though he was experiencing one of Alexius's spells. The hand on his knee shifted higher, up to his hip, and the one on his cheek slid around to the back of his neck. A gentle tug, then warm skin against his face—and it still took Dorian a moment to recognize the embrace. He bit back a curse and slumped forward, leaning into Bull's chest.

"None of this was your fault," said Bull. The words rumbled against Dorian's cheek. "None of it. Okay?"

"Okay," Dorian repeated. The lie tasted bitter.

Bull must have heard it, because he tightened his grip and tugged Dorian closer. He pressed a light kiss to Dorian's forehead, murmuring, "The people you should blame are already dead, so fuck 'em."

"Charming," Dorian said. He shifted, dropping his hands into his lap. His fingers knotted together. "As always."

Bull's reply was a grunt. He stroked the back of Dorian's neck, murmuring something so quietly that Dorian couldn't make out the words.

He seemed remarkably calm about the near-fatal attack, but Dorian assumed he had gone through it all before. After all those years of fighting, Bull must have grown accustomed to it. He would have learned how to observe an incident, gather what information he could from it, and move on.

But Dorian was still trapped in the observation. He could remember the way Bull gasped as the sword entered his belly, and the horrible smile on his face as he told Dorian to go.

 _I've had worse_.

Dorian closed his eyes, willing himself to think of something happier, like the steady heartbeat beneath his ear. That was good. This could have been any other night with Bull, except he wasn’t drenched in sweat and struggling to breathe steadily. If they were in Skyhold, he would be murmuring his thanks while Bull cleaned the sweat and spunk from his skin with a damp cloth. Then, he would dress and hide the lovemarks with spells or powders while Bull sat in bed and watched, eye lingering on any bare skin.

That was what this was supposed to be.

In the hallway, Sera's laughter rang out. Blackwall's reply caused her to giggle again, her voice ricocheting around the hallway.

The embrace broke as Dorian sat up and turned, eying the door. He wondered if they were planning to visit, but they continued walking. The sounds of their footsteps slowly faded.

"Old habits, huh," said Bull. He didn't sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded oddly fond.

Well, that made two of them.

Dorian shrugged and touched Bull's thigh, drumming his fingers along the thick scar hidden under those trousers. From Bull’s days in Seheron, he guessed. It was an ugly one, and Bull hadn’t shared the story behind it.

"Perhaps." Dorian inched closer, stretching up to press their foreheads together. He was struck with a memory of the first night: sheets sticking to his sweaty skin and Bull looming over him, murmuring filthy words against his cheek as they fucked. "I have collected more than a few over the years."

"Could be worse," said Bull quietly. He pressed his lips to Dorian's cheek so lightly that it couldn't have been more than a suggestion of a kiss. "What if you spent your nights drinking and gambling?"

He sounded so pleased with himself that Dorian had to snort and look away. This silly man.

"Maker forbid," Dorian said, and kissed him again. The soft noise Bull made against his mouth caused something to swell in his chest, and he still wanted _more_. Anything to distract the wild thoughts in his head was welcome, and this was something he could do in return for all the kind things Bull had given him. "I locked the door, if you're interested."

Bull reached to touch Dorian’s knee again, squeezing. "I saw."

"I hope you understand what I'm implying."

There was no reply, and Bull's face was blank.

Mild panic settled sharply in Dorian’s belly. Bull had never declined his advances before. There was a first time for everything, he supposed, but he had hoped it wouldn’t be _now_. It was becoming rapidly clear to him that he needed things to be the way they usually were—for Bull to flirt and tease and stare at his arse, and then fuck him blind.

"I do," said Bull, and Dorian relaxed. "Tell me what you want."

"To touch you," Dorian replied. Going with the simplest answer was the sensible route, and he knew Bull had accepted it by the way his mouth curved into a crooked grin. Still, he had to add, "And suck your cock."

"Well, shit," said Bull, laughing. He patted his lap. "C’mere. Let me get my hands on you."

Dorian settled over Bull's thighs. Hands stroked his shoulders and skimmed down his sides to rest on his hips, thumbs stroking absently. Already, he felt calmer. What happened outside this room no longer mattered. Not when Bull's hands were on him again.

He flattened his palms over Bull's chest. This rough skin was familiar now. He knew when Bull would suck in a quick breath and hold it, and how his shoulders would slump when he released it. That he didn't really care about his nipples, but there was a spot on his belly that would make him collapse with laughter every time Dorian touched it. Which scars to avoid.

Bull touched one of Dorian's wrists, fingers stretching to cover the entire hand. He brought their joined hands to his mouth and kissed Dorian's knuckles. It was _obscene_ , how much that simple touch made something flutter behind Dorian's ribs.

"Look at you," Bull said, his eye flicking from Dorian's face down his chest. "Fuck, look at you."

Dorian lifted his chin and went still, watching Bull's eye track the line of his jaw. It had taken him a long time to grow accustomed to the weight of Bull's gaze, which felt as real and heavy as a touch. Bull liked to look at him—and had told him so, several times—but he always looked at people like he was studying them, and Dorian found it  strange to have all that attention focused on him. He had never known another man who looked at him with such precision.

"I would prefer if you did more than look," said Dorian. He guided Bull's hand to the nearest buckle. "If you don't mind."

Big hands fumbled at his clothing until his chest was bare, and Bull embraced him, tugging him closer. They kissed, slow and sloppy, and it was _good_. He could stay here for hours, with nothing but Bull's warm hands on his back and sweet mouth against his.

"I love this," Bull whispered. He kissed a tender spot under Dorian's ear and slowly worked his way back to Dorian's mouth, pressing light kisses along the jawline. "Just kissing you. I love the way you taste. Every single—" He grabbed Dorian's hips and held him still, grinding against his arse. "—inch of you."

Dorian shifted his weight and ignored his own hard cock, trapped beneath two layers of fabric. "Some more than others, I imagine."

He waited for the grin to spread over Bull's face before he worked a hand between their bodies. A deep chuckle rumbled against his ear.

"Still sore, though," Bull reminded him. He shifted, nudging Dorian back a few inches, and pushed those terrible trousers over his hips. Dorian tugged them down further, and Bull kicked them towards the end of the bed. "Be gentle with me."

"Always."

Dorian regretted the sickly sweet taste of the word almost immediately, but Bull only sighed and arched into his touch, cock stiff and leaking at the tip.

He shifted backwards, lowering his head. Bull's prick was a considerable size, larger than any man he'd ever been with, and he couldn't use his usual tricks. Couldn't relax his jaw for too long, and certainly not his throat, even though he wanted to. Still, he could touch what his mouth couldn't reach, and soon, Bull was grunting, twisting his fingers in Dorian's hair.

There were few things Dorian enjoyed more than this: the smell and the taste, the weight on his tongue, the way his lips stretched. He could reduce Bull to curses and gasps, all with something so simple.

"You're so good," Bull said, because he always liked to talk. Liked to hear Dorian's responses, too, even if his mouth was full. His hand slid down, cupping the back of Dorian's neck. "Please—yes, yes. Oh, you're so good. I need—I just need—"

Dorian pulled away long enough to say, "Fuck my mouth, then," and returned, listening to Bull groan. His jaw ached, but this was worth the trouble.

"'m okay," Bull mumbled. He was already breathing heavily, and Dorian could see the sweat trickling from his neck down the center of his chest. "I'm—fuck, I—"

"Tell me," Dorian said, though he had a few ideas. He stroked Bull's cock slowly, watching his breath stutter in his throat, and added, "Please," because Bull always liked that word.

"I wanna—" Bull grunted, cursing, when Dorian bowed his head again. The hand on the back of Dorian's neck tightened. "Can I come on your face?"

"You may," Dorian corrected, if only to hear Bull chuckle. "Come for me, Bull. Right on me."

"Yes," Bull breathed, and Dorian's trousers were _painfully_ tight now. "Yes, you—Dorian, please—"

When Bull came, the first spurt hit Dorian's forehead, right below his eyebrow. He snapped his eyes shut, remembering _that_ particular mistake, and stroked Bull through it, listening to him groan and breathe sharply through his nose. The rest landed on his cheek.

"Fuck," said Bull, sighing. He patted the back of Dorian's neck, then his head, and carefully swiped his thumb along Dorian's brow. "Okay—no, wait." Another thick finger touched his eyelid. "Okay. You're good."

Dorian opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. There was still come on his face, a thick streak along his cheek, and Bull was looking down at him with—reverence, it seemed, like he couldn't believe who was bent over his lap. That desperate affection reared its ugly head again, and Dorian knew he was lost. He always wanted Bull to look at him that way.

If he couldn't ignore it, perhaps he could conceal it.

"Thank you," Dorian murmured. He grabbed Bull's hand, guiding it towards his mouth, and licked each dirty finger clean.

Bull's moan was loud, staggering in the quiet. He scrambled at Dorian's shoulders, saying, "Oh, fuck—up here, c'mon, let me," as he tugged him up, helpfully shoving his trousers open. Dorian straddled his thighs and barely got a hand around his cock before Bull covered it.

"I appreciate," said Dorian, leaning closer until their mouths knocked together in a messy kiss, "your assistance."

"I'm very handy," Bull replied and grinned, likely because he recognized his own pun.

A few clumsy strokes later, Dorian groaned and came, spilling over their fingers onto Bull's belly.

"Yeah, there you go," said Bull quietly, untangling their fingers. He grabbed a corner of the sheet and dabbed at Dorian's cheek before cleaning the rest. "C'mere."

"We are literally _inches_ from each other," Dorian pointed out, but he welcomed the embrace and slumped forward, arms hanging at his sides. He turned, resting his head against the broad chest.

After a few minutes, Bull asked, "Good?"

"Generally. You?"

"You're a great cocksucker."

"Yes, I know," said Dorian. That was a crude compliment, and it shouldn't have made him so happy to hear it. "Thank you."

Bull hummed and said nothing. His hand was a warm comfort on Dorian's back.

Time. Dorian needed more time. He just needed to sort out whatever was happening in his head.

"You can stay," said Bull, like he usually did. His hand drifted up and down Dorian's back. "Keep me warm. It'll be cold tonight."

There was no point in pretending to consider the offer; Bull could read him as easily as a book, and that strange, tight feeling in Dorian's chest wasn't helping. Still, Dorian shrugged and straightened, pressing his palms to Bull's chest. "Is that all you need me for?"

Bull chuckled. His hands slid up Dorian's back and over his shoulders, skimming down his arms to touch his wrists. He pushed Dorian's palms harder against his chest, saying, "Give me some."

"Only because you asked so nicely," said Dorian. He flexed his fingers, pouring heat into the skin below. Bull's shoulders stiffened. A tiny movement, but Dorian knew how to spot them now.

There was a significant difference between trusting magic and trusting Dorian, and it was one that Dorian hadn't appreciated until recently.  It meant a lot to him that Bull freely gave his trust. He suspected that was a rare gift.

Bull lowered his hands, spreading his fingers over Dorian's thighs. "Is that a yes?"

"I'll stay for a little while," said Dorian. If the broad smile on Bull's face affected in him in any way, he tried to keep it hidden. He pressed his fingers against Bull's chest, letting more heat seep through. "Wouldn't want you to freeze."

That smile was still doing terrible things to his insides, and Dorian had to glance away. The bed was an inviting option: spacious, with room to sleep on his own or curled up against Bull. But he was comfortable where he was, so he turned his head and slumped forward, closing his eyes. One big hand traveled up his back and covered his head, and the other splayed out over his back.

They stayed like that for a while, silent. Dorian could hear nothing but breathing and the wind whistling outside.

"I'm glad you weren't hurt," said Bull quietly. His fingers rubbed small circles on Dorian's back. "I would've missed you, too."

Dorian kept his eyes shut, unsure of how to respond. He wanted to joke or tease, but that felt out of place. So did a serious conversation, unfortunately. It was difficult to be solemn while he was sitting in Bull's lap, and they both smelled like sex. He kept his breathing steady, pretending to be asleep.

After a few minutes, Bull said his name. Dorian grunted.

"Yeah," said Bull, chuckling. He held Dorian against his chest and inched down the bed until he could lie down, then gently shifted Dorian onto the bed. "Sorry. My back was killing me."

"Should've said something," Dorian murmured. He rolled onto his side and slipped an arm over Bull's belly. That was how they slept together, on the rare occasions that they did.

It wasn't until he had yawned and inched closer, Bull's arm pressed comfortably against his back, that he realized he was covering the missing scar. Blocking it. Protecting it?

Maker, he needed to sleep.

"Night," Bull said. Dorian murmured the same.

* * *

The next day, Bull refused to stay confined to a bed and ignored Trevelyan's firm suggestions to go back to his quarters. Dorian didn't want to play nurse or jailer, so he left Bull to his own devices and spent the morning with Vivienne, who was penning carefully disrespectful letters. Crafting delicate insults was an excellent way to pass the time, and seeing Vivienne's lips quirk with amusement was as good as laughter.

They continued to work until midday, when Trevelyan strode into the study.

"Vivienne," Trevelyan greeted. She was in her robes and boots, staff strapped to her back, and she tracked dirt with every step. Probably just came from the markets, Dorian guessed. "Do you mind staying in Orlais for a little longer? I have to return to Skyhold as soon as possible, but I need to know who ordered the attack."

"Of course, darling," Vivienne answered. She sealed a letter carefully, then set it aside with the others. "Who else? I'll need to inform the servants."

"Cassandra and Blackwall offered. And Varric."

Vivienne made a quick note on a scrap of paper. "Very well. Did you discover anything new?"

"Nothing," Trevelyan said, barely suppressing a scowl. She reached into her pocket and pulled out several crumpled pieces of paper. "Sera picked some pockets while we were out. I don't recognize any of these names, but perhaps you do."

"Aren't mysteries _exciting_ ," said Dorian. He peered over Vivienne's shoulder, skimming the stolen papers. Nothing jumped out at him. "Bull didn't want to stay and investigate?"

"He did," Trevelyan replied. "I said no."

Vivienne tucked the papers away in a drawer. "I'll see what we can find, Inquisitor."

"Thank you," Trevelyan said, sighing. She offered Vivienne a quick bow. "I need to speak with Cullen's officers. See you tonight."

She left. Dorian followed in search of Bull.

The nearby library was empty. Dorian peered out a window into the gardens and spotted Solas, sitting on a bench with Cole. A servant near the kitchens said that she hadn't seen Bull at all today, which only left his quarters. Dorian turned around, heading for the guest wing.

As he approached the front hall, he heard Bull say, "This used to be my job," and stopped to listen. "I'm good at it."

"And we're trying to be subtle about this." Trevelyan. She was speaking in a calm, gentle tone. "Let's say you're a merc. A one-eyed qunari walks in and starts asking questions about a failed operation. You know your friends just got killed by the same qunari. How forthcoming are you going to be?"

Dorian crept forward, peering around the corner.

"I have contacts here," said Bull. Everything in his body language was tensed: his arms were crossed, and his shoulders were drawn tight. "I—"

"Bull." Trevelyan rested a hand on his folded arms. She studied him for a long moment. "Do this for me."

Everything in Bull's posture softened when he bowed his head, sighing. His shoulders slumped. "Ah, shit."

"Indeed," Trevelyan said, smiling. She smacked his chest lightly with the back of her palm. "We're leaving tomorrow at dawn, so get some rest. And find Vivienne if there's any pain. _Any_. Understand?"

"I hear you, boss."

Dorian waited until Trevelyan left before he stepped forward. The tightness had returned to Bull's shoulders, and he stared at the front door, hands squeezing into fists at his sides. Clearly upset, even though he wouldn't say anything. He rarely did.

"They'll handle it," said Dorian. He didn't bother apologizing for eavesdropping, since Bull probably heard him approach. "One Hawke-shaped blind spot aside, Cassandra is good at her job."

"I know," said Bull glumly. He sighed, scratching at his belly. "Are you staying with them?"

Dorian shook his head. He hadn't been asked; Trevelyan must have assumed he wouldn't want to, which was the truth. He could handle setting things on fire and translating complicated texts, but searching through Orlais for the men who had attacked the estate was likely to be boring. And he was willing to admit that he wanted to stay with Bull.

"If I have to eat another one of those sugary cakes, I might vomit," said Dorian, in lieu of something more profound.

Bull smiled faintly, saying, "Can't have that," as he continued to scratch absently at his belly. There was no wound or scar, but he had to remember the pain as surely as Dorian remembered the blood. People who lost limbs sometimes thought they were still there. It was likely something similar.

"You should be resting," said Dorian, remembering Trevelyan's parting words.

Bull glanced down at his stomach, frowning. "There's nothing to rest."

"I could help with that," Dorian offered, and immediately regretted it. Tiring Bull out was a satisfying way to pass the time, but it was the middle of the day. They met at night, when the moon was bright and Dorian had enough time to slip back to his room before morning. This wasn't something they did.

"Is that so," said Bull, and all Dorian could think of was that strange tightness in his chest when Bull asked him to stay.

"Yes," said Dorian, thinking wildly. He tilted his head away from the door, saying, "Come for a walk with me."

"Sounds like you have something planned."

"Cole and Solas are in the garden," Dorian replied. Was that disappointment in the way Bull blinked? He couldn't tell. "Between the two of us, we might be able to understand at least some of what they're saying."

That warm smile returned to Bull's face. He turned away from the door, nudging Dorian's arm with his. "Okay. Sounds good."

* * *

They traveled back to Skyhold with Inquisition soldiers and caravans, which took supplies back and forth between camps. Dorian enjoyed traveling with a large group. Hearing the constant sounds of people reminded him of his home, in a city along the sea, and that was a welcome distraction on a long trip.

By evening, Dorian ached. He stretched and groaned, willing the steady pain in his back to fade away. Even after all this time, he wasn't accustomed to long rides. Horses were faster, as were caravans, but he preferred to walk. Sore legs were better than back pain.

After a hot meal and several cups of water, he still felt sore, so he went to stretch his legs before bed. Soldiers were gathered around fires in the center of camp, swapping stories about their posts in Orlais. Scouts bent over maps, planning their routes for the next few days. He spotted Solas on the far edge of camp, hunched over a bowl by a small fire. Cole was sitting beside him, gesturing wildly. Past a group of tired researchers, Trevelyan was in a deep discussion with her requisition officers. One hastily scribbled notes on a scrap of parchment, while another listed off their current potion stock.

And there was Bull, standing by the makeshift stables and feeding a horse. _His_ horse, technically, since she was the only Inquisition mount he felt comfortable riding. She was an enormous beast, like something out of a nanny's bedtime tale, and only looked in proportion when Bull was in the saddle.

"Hey," Bull greeted, nodding. The horse snorted and nudged Bull's arm. He patted her neck, chuckling. "Sorry, little one. No more apples."

" _Little_ ," Dorian repeated. He doubted he could heave himself into her saddle without a running start. "Right."

Bull made a sound that was disturbingly close to a coo and clicked his tongue. "Yeah, she is."

"If you say so," said Dorian. He was pleased to see that Bull seemed to be in good spirits, and not in any obvious pain. No favoring the good leg or sitting quietly with Trevelyan. Still, to be certain, Dorian gestured vaguely at Bull's belly and asked, "How's your latest injury treating you?"

"Good," Bull answered. He scratched at his stomach, fingers curling against the skin, and yelped when the horse nibbled on his palm. "Keep fussing over me. I like it."

Of course he would make that sound filthy. Dorian scoffed.

"I suppose I'll have to stop, then," he said, which was an utter lie, and both of them knew it.

Bull shrugged, a faint smile appearing on his face. He murmured something to the horse before he stepped away, towards Dorian. His hand fell away from his stomach, fingers flexing against his thigh, and he stood there for a long moment before he spoke.

"Can I touch you?"

Between the soldiers and horses and fires, there was so much noise in the camp, and yet it felt like Bull was shouting. Dorian glanced around, grateful that nobody seemed to be listening in, and asked, "Where?" His face, he assumed. Bull liked holding his face, rubbing his thumbs along Dorian's cheeks before leaning in to kiss him. He wondered if that was what Bull wanted, and a chill that had nothing to do with the cold air curled up his spine.

But Bull said, "Your shoulder."

"Oh," said Dorian. Odd, how relief and disappointment could tangle together. "Yes, you may."

One big hand landed on his shoulder, fingers squeezing and pressing into his back. Dorian sucked in a quick breath when those fingers found knotted muscle.

"Krem gets like this after long rides," Bull said. He pushed the heel of his palm into Dorian's shoulder, moving in small circles. "Always hunches over to the side when he's tired, and then he whines about it until I get the knot out. Is that a Vint thing?"

"Haven't a clue," Dorian murmured. People were walking by, and none of them seemed to care about the one-eyed giant rubbing the evil magister's back. What a strange world they lived in. He bowed his head, concentrating on the steady movement of Bull's fingers.

Eventually, the touch slowed to a stop. Bull's hand slid up to the back of Dorian's neck.

And didn't move.

"How's that," said Bull quietly. His hand still wasn't moving.

Dorian glanced up. There was nothing identifiable on Bull's face; his expression was utterly blank, and he stared straight ahead. Worried, Dorian realized. For a moment, he was glad to know that Bull wasn't adjusting to everything as quickly as he usually did, but that was quickly overtaken by guilt. Bull was likely as lost as he was. He was just better at hiding it.

What a pair they made.

"Much better," Dorian answered. Warmth spread throughout his chest when Bull's face broke into a smile. "Thank you."

People continued to wander by, and Bull was still touching him. They talked amongst themselves or called out orders to soldiers across the camp, and no one looked for too long. Dorian knew when people tried not to stare or attempted to steal glances out of the corner of their eye. The weight of an averted gaze was just as heavy as a stare, and that wasn't happening here. He and Bull might as well have been part of the scenery, which should have been impossible. They both stood out in a crowd. Particularly the giant one with the horns.

"I like this," said Bull. His fingers inched slowly along the back of Dorian's neck. "Touching you. It's nice."

His voice was quiet, like he was sharing a secret. Dorian thought about those big hands on his skin, remembering the way Bull could reduce him to garbled words with only a touch. 

"You touch me all the time."

Bull shook his head. "That's different."

No lie there. They fucked. Embraced. Kissed. They didn't stand in the middle of camp like this, standing close enough to be intimate. After sex, maybe. Not like this.

"Do you?" Bull's fingers stilled. "Like this, I mean."

It sounded like he was asking an entirely different question. Dorian gave himself a moment to think.

There were many things that he appreciated about Bull. His size was an obvious choice, if Dorian was feeling particularly shallow. He was clever, with a keen eye for details that most people overlooked. He had never been anything but kind and gentle, and he had made it clear that their affair went in whatever direction Dorian wanted. And he was always asking questions; Dorian had never heard _is this okay_ so many times in his life. He swung between exasperation and appreciation for that. More towards the latter, these days.

He wondered if Bull did feel just as confused as he did.

"I like your hands," Dorian said, and Bull looked so _happy_ , and—someone laughed. The sound rose sharply in Dorian's ears, and he didn't realize he'd stepped away until Bull's hand slipped off his neck.

It was only a soldier, entertained by his own story, but the damage had been done. Dorian's skin prickled, too hot even in the cool night air.

"We can go somewhere private," said Bull, as though Dorian hadn't flinched away from his touch a moment ago. "If you want."

The implication was obvious, but Dorian hesitated. He had planned to find a tent after his walk and go to sleep. Sitting in an uncomfortable saddle was somehow more exhausting than walking all day and every inch of him was sore, even after Bull's massage. He couldn't imagine doing anything more strenuous than setting up a bedroll.

"I doubt I can indulge you tonight," said Dorian slowly.

"That's okay," said Bull, shrugging. A faint smile flickered across his face. "I just like sleeping next to you."

He'd said that before, usually when Dorian was pulling his boots on, and it always sounded like a joke. It didn't tonight.

"Oh," said Dorian, to fill the silence. Behind him, someone was beginning to sing, and the muffled conversations of the soldiers around them disappeared into a loud chorus. "Did you have somewhere in mind?"

Bull tilted his head to the left. "Boss told me about an open space near the old armory."

The tent the Inquisition used to use as an armory was tucked away in the corner of camp, sandwiched between miscellaneous storage. It was private, far away from the temporary barracks, and much more secluded than anything else in camp.

"That sounds," said Dorian, searching for a word that didn't betray the chaos in his head, "adequate. Will you snore?"

"Only if you do," Bull replied. He mocked a cry of pain when Dorian swatted at his arm. "You feeling tired? I already set up the tent."

Dorian nodded. He needed all the sleep he could manage when they were traveling.

"Okay." Bull glanced around the camp, eye lingering on a few groups of soldiers. "I'll be there in a bit."

 _No need for that_ , Dorian nearly said. He wanted to shake his head and tell Bull to follow him, but the words were buried somewhere deep in his throat. Absurd. How many times had he told Bull to go to his room and wait for him? Surely, things couldn't have changed this much.

Instead, Dorian said, "I may be asleep when you get there."

"I'll tiptoe," Bull replied. He patted Dorian's shoulder and walked away.

Dorian watched him disappear into a crowd of soldiers, feeling strangely unsteady. Perhaps he was wrong, and there was no confusion on Bull's end. It was difficult to tell without asking outright, and he couldn't imagine doing that. Certainly not in the middle of camp.

Another song was starting up as Dorian walked towards the edge of camp. On the way there, he passed Sera, who mimed crudely with her hands and winked. In response, he tripled the size of her fire. She shrieked and fell backwards, but she was already laughing before she hit the ground.

The tent was in a secluded area, just as Bull had said. Dorian left his staff within reach and crawled inside. There were two bedrolls, lined up neatly beside each other. One had a pillow, which was odd. There was rarely room for such comforts on their travels; Dorian usually used a spare set of robes.

He knelt, peering at it. The pillow was soft to the touch and thick, sinking gently under his hand. It looked almost exactly like the one Vivienne traveled with. Dorian wondered if Bull had asked to borrow it, or if she had given it to him. Either option was touching.

It occurred to Dorian that he was kneeling in a dark tent, feeling sentimental over cloth and feathers. Scowling, he flopped onto the bedroll and hugged the damned pillow to his cheek. His shoulder dug sharply into the ground below.

Everything would be much easier if he could figure out a way to discuss their situation without embarrassing himself or insulting Bull. Things felt starkly different now, more than they did before and after the attack. Intimate. That was new to Dorian, and he had been so certain that it was the same for Bull, even if he hadn't said so.

There were things that Bull did, like touch his face or kiss his forehead, that felt _different_. Last week, his hand hadn't fit over Dorian's back the way it did now. He still sighed when Dorian kissed him, but there was something beneath it. Perhaps Dorian hadn't noticed it until now.

Or he was overreacting, and imagining things.

Or he was just clinging to the kindness Bull had shown him, and didn't want to lose it.

Or this really had been building for all these months, and it had only clicked into place when he saw Bull half-dead and bleeding.

 _I have a lot of blood_.

Dorian cursed and closed his eyes, forcing himself to rest.

*

Someone tugged the tent flap aside. Dorian's eyes snapped open, heartbeat hurtling into his throat, but he relaxed when he saw horns.

"I tiptoed," said Bull. He knelt on the empty bedroll, adding, "Sorry," as he shifted and settled onto his back, folding his hands together on his belly.

Dorian rolled onto his back, gazing through the muddy darkness. A sliver of the moon was visible through the tent's opening. He thought, foolishly, of the soft pillow beneath his head. That would only grow and expand into something sillier if he let it linger, so he said, "You brought me a pillow."

"I did," said Bull. One horn scraped against the wall of the tent as he shifted his weight. "D'you like it?"

"Yes," Dorian answered. He turned his head to the left, glancing up at Bull. The lone eye was closed, and didn't open when Dorian pushed himself up. He leaned over to press their mouths together, keeping himself balanced with an elbow in the ground and a hand on Bull's belly. The kiss was brief, but Bull still hummed and held his face, drawing him closer.

"Thought you wanted to sleep," said Bull. He smiled faintly, rubbing his thumb along Dorian's cheek. "Not that I'm complaining."

Dorian pushed his fingernails into Bull's ribs, snorting when Bull bit back a chuckle. He leaned all his weight into his elbow and touched the hand on his face, linking their fingers together for a brief moment before he settled back onto his bedroll.

"Restrain yourself," Dorian said. His skin felt strangely hot where Bull had touched, and he could still feel the ghost of Bull's fingers interlocked with his. "I only meant to give my thanks."

Bull rolled his shoulders back, horns knocking into the tent's wall, and rested his hands on his stomach again. "Consider me restrained."

"Done," Dorian replied. Bull's arm was hot against his, a sharp contrast to the cold ground under his back. He closed his eyes, wishing he didn't ache this much.

A few minutes later, Bull was snoring. Dorian was still wide awake, mind racing.

This was the second time in a week he and Bull had spent a complete night together. Third, if he counted the time he slept in a chair. Was this expected of him now? He wasn't sure if he minded. Perhaps not. This ache was still there, heavy in his chest, and he doubted it was going to disappear. He suspected it would only worsen.

He couldn't shove this new intimacy in a box and ignore it when they weren't fucking. It still lingered, hurting. Why did it have to hurt? He felt like a child, complaining about a sore throat or an upset stomach. The last time—

Well.

Dorian tried not to remember the last time he yearned this way for someone, but that only drew the memories closer. All those years ago, and he could still remember the way Rilienus's eyes brightened when he smiled. He wondered if he would have felt like this if he'd said something, instead of wanting from afar. Perhaps it always felt like this.

 _It_. Affection. Some inexplicable love. It was a doomed feeling, looming over his head and puncturing his chest with every thought.

Dorian didn't want it.

* * *

As they approached Skyhold, Dorian could just barely make out Sera in the distance. She had ridden ahead with a few soldiers, eager for a race. Judging by the sullen expressions on the men they passed, she had won.

"Home," said Cole, gazing up at the gate. He tilted his head back further, watching birds disappear into the sky, until he made a surprised sound and jerked himself upright. Dorian snorted.

Sera was standing at the gate, holding a bowl of berries. Her fingers were already stained purple, and there was juice smeared over her chin. She waved at Trevelyan, calling, "Your man's all excited to see you." She shoved a handful of berries into her mouth and grinned. "He's in his tower. _Primping_."

"Thank you, Sera," said Trevelyan wearily, though her gaze slid towards Cullen's tower for a moment. "Did anything interesting happen while we were gone?"

Sera shrugged. "Dunno. Haven’t talked to anyone yet. There's kittens, I think. Lots of kids by the stables."

"Kittens?" Cole asked hopefully. Sera ignored him.

A fresh-faced soldier took their horses, and everyone went their separate ways. Solas had already disappeared into the crowds. Cole wandered towards the stables, trailing Sera from a distance, and Trevelyan left for Cullen's tower. Bull groaned, his stomach rumbling, and followed Dorian into the castle.

Krem was waiting at the entrance, grim-faced and still.

"You got my letter," Bull guessed. Krem swore and punched his shoulder. "Ow! Shit, _ow_."

They hugged, clapping each other on the back, and Dorian left them to it. The Chargers would want to hear the story and mourn the missing scar, and he knew how much Bull missed his boys when he was away.

He brought his things to his quarters, bathed and changed, and headed for the library. Several volumes had been delivered in his absence, and had already been organized into careful piles by the eager elven librarian. Correctly, Dorian was relieved to discover. He settled into his usual armchair, eager to begin reading.

*

A few hours later, heavy footsteps drew Dorian's attention from an age-old book. He glanced up and saw Bull, carrying a plate of food. Not an uncommon sight; he often forgot to eat while he was deep in research, and Bull had started bringing him meals months ago. Vivienne did, too, though she usually sent her favorite messenger.

"It's not pork," said Bull, before Dorian could ask. He left the plate on a nearby table, carefully angled away from Dorian's notes. "Beef and potatoes."

Dorian slid a sheet of parchment into the book and shut it. The food was still warm and smelled delightful, but all he could focus on was Bull. He was close enough to block Dorian's view of the library, and one boot was nearly between Dorian's legs.

He wondered if Bull intended to kiss him.

That thought stubbornly refused to leave. Stupid, considering Bull wouldn't do such a thing without permission or an invitation. Dorian knew this, and yet nerves leapt in his belly, prickling over the back of his neck. He gripped the book tighter, fingers curling around the spine.

"Thank you," said Dorian. Bull made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "What have the Chargers been up to without you?"

Bull stepped to the side and leaned against a bookshelf, crossing his arms over his chest. If he had spotted Dorian's discomfort, it wasn't obvious on his face. Perhaps he hadn't intended to do anything at all. Dorian loosened his grip on the book, flexing his fingers.

"The usual," Bull answered. His face brightened, as it always did when he talked about his company. "They handled a bandit problem on the main trade route here. Helped Cullen with some of the new recruits. Oh, and Skinner bloodied her new dagger."

"The usual," Dorian echoed. Bull's pride was so evident that he almost felt it as his own. "Good to hear."

"Yeah. They're good. " Bull tapped his fingers along his arm, glancing around the stack of books and notes. "Will I see you in the tavern tonight?"

Dorian shrugged. There was plenty of work that needed to be completed, but visiting Bull's quarters after a long journey and hours of reading was something to look forward to. He wanted Bull's touch—ached for it, even now. That was another stubborn thought, and one that likely wouldn't leave until he felt Bull's hands on him again. Behind the privacy of a closed door, preferably.

He wished he could bury that ache, along with the lingering affection.

"Okay," said Bull cheerfully. Something outside caught his eye; he peered out the window, squinting. "Ah, there he is." He turned back to Dorian. "I gotta go talk with Krem. See you tonight, if I do."

"Have fun," said Dorian, as he watched Bull leave. Nerves still stabbed through his belly.

There was nothing to be anxious about. Bull had brought him food and inquired about his plans for the evening, as he often did. They would probably fuck tonight, and perhaps have a tender conversation as they lay in bed beside each other—which was apparently a new term of their arrangement, considering how often it had happened lately.

Dorian picked up the plate and stabbed a chunk of potato with a fork, sighing. No. Nothing had changed. He was only assuming Bull's intentions based on his own wild thoughts.

From across the library, Solas cleared his throat. He had a knowing look on his face, and it worsened as he walked over.

"Oh, stop," Dorian snapped. He shoved the food away, his appetite gone.

"It wasn't a secret, you know," said Solas, as though Dorian hadn't spoken. He linked his fingers together behind his back. "You're not nearly as subtle as you think you are."

"I didn't realize you cared," Dorian tried. It was a pitiful attempt, but Solas's little smirk was aggravating, and all he could think about was Circles and instructors who shook their heads sadly at failed spells. "About me, or Bull."

Solas shrugged. Amusement still tugged around his mouth.

"How do you feel about cocks, Solas?"

A final effort, to be shocking—which was juvenile, and Solas wouldn't think any better of him, but it made Dorian feel a little better when Solas's eyes widened. Unfortunately, that only lasted for a moment.

"Indifferent," Solas answered, which was _maddening_ , and wandered down the stairs.

*

By nightfall, Dorian fell into his usual habits.

The castle was quiet, but the tavern was still busy. A few soldiers were standing outside, groaning and bent at the waist. Two encouraged another to be sick, while one poor man was already emptying the contents of his stomach into the grass. Dorian stepped past them and slipped in through the front door, where a group of scouts were dancing in a circle around the bard.

Music thumped in his chest as he climbed the stairs, passing the Chargers. The one who pretended not to be a mage elbowed the elf with the knives, a smirk curling around her mouth, but whatever she said was lost in off-key singing.

He climbed the next flight of stairs. It was quieter here: mostly the older soldiers, heads bent together over a table as they murmured and drank. He ignored them all, his eyes on Bull's quarters.

When he reached the door, he knocked once.

"Yeah," Bull called. He didn't sound tired or annoyed, and there was light visible at the bottom of the door. Working on reports, Dorian assumed. "Come in."

Dorian pushed the door open to see that Bull was in bed, browsing a stack of papers. A single torch burned above the bed, casting strange shadows over the linens.

"Evening," said Dorian. He shut the door and turned, thumbing a buckle on his robes. "Are you busy?"

Bull shoved the papers onto the bedside table and beckoned him closer.

*

After, Dorian sat on the edge of the bed and murmured his thanks. Bull, still sprawled out on his back, reached over and fit his hand over Dorian's hip.

"I should go," said Dorian, as Bull pressed a damp kiss to his spine. He bowed his head, feeling the stubble scrape against his skin.

Bull pushed his fingers into Dorian's hips, where he had been gripping tightly only a few minutes ago. "So soon?"

Normally, Dorian would welcome this: the teasing, the encouragement to stay the night or one more round. Now, all he could think was the blood splattered over the stone and the way Bull clutched his hand in the dark. Or Bull's arm, pressed warmly against his as they slept in their own tent. That deep ache, still lingering in Dorian's chest.

He needed to know what Bull wanted, and if that matched his own needs. A difficult thing to discover, considering he still hadn't decided what was genuine.

"Hey," said Bull. His hand slipped off Dorian's hip. "It's only an offer. You don't have to—"

"What is it, exactly," Dorian interrupted, turning to face Bull, "that you gain from our arrangement?"

Bull's brows furrowed. He studied Dorian carefully, nothing but a blank expression on his own face. Again. Dorian waited.

Finally, Bull asked, "What do you mean by that?"

 _Kaffas_. Bull wasn't this dense. He had to know what Dorian meant.

"Why," said Dorian, trying to ignore the panic building in his chest, "do you—want me in your bed?"

"Because you're hot," Bull answered. The compliment wouldn't have stung if Dorian hadn't spent the last few days in a confused stupor, struggling to figure out exactly what was real and what had been created by Bull's near-death. "And smart. I like talking to you. It's never boring."

He pushed himself up and leaned against the headboard, hands resting in his lap. His voice was quiet when he added, "But, mostly…you're a good man, Dorian."

"Oh," said Dorian, because he couldn't say anything else. That shouldn't have staggered him the way that it did, but he had to turn and glance at the floor, away from Bull's prying eye. It was almost crude the way his heart swelled in his chest, all because Bull believed this about him. He tried to remember the last time someone had something similar.

"I hope you think you are, too," said Bull softly, and that—

Too much. Dorian pushed himself off the bed. He could feel Bull's eye on the back of his neck.

"I believe you are," he said, and made an excuse about finding his trousers. Whatever moment had been created by Bull's words was gone.

While he dressed, Bull stretched and scratched at his belly. He patted the bed with his other hand once Dorian was finished.

"I _just_ got dressed," Dorian reminded him. Bull liked undressing him, taking his time with every strap and buckle, but it was quite late.

"C'mere," said Bull, patting the bed again. "I wanna kiss you before you go."

"If you insist," Dorian replied, rolling his eyes, but he had already started walking over. He might be a good man, but he was certainly a mad one for feeling the way he did over such simple words. "Aren't you an eager one tonight."

A grin spread over Bull's face, broadening when Dorian sat on the edge of the bed. "Yeah, I know."

"Beastly man," said Dorian, mocking a sigh, and bent down for a kiss. Sweat and sex still lingered in the air, and he could feel the jagged shape of the scar over Bull's mouth pressed against his. That, combined with this familiar conversation, was a comfort to the ongoing chaos distorting his thoughts.

Bull kept his hands to himself, which was new. When they broke apart, he looked up at Dorian and studied him carefully. He didn't blink.

"Whatever we're doing here," said Bull, his voice low and solemn, "it's on your terms, okay? We can stop. We can—keep going. You set the pace."

"Yes, you've told me this before," said Dorian, unable to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Bull had given him a similar speech more than once. "What prompted the reminder?"

"I know you're embarrassed," Bull answered, and Dorian could predict the rest of this: _you're not in Tevinter_ and _I know it's hard_ and _it'll be okay_. "Solas isn't going to tease you all the time."

Dorian grimaced. He didn't want to remember that sorry excuse of a conversation. He'd been too flustered to come up with anything that wasn't childish, and Solas's responses hadn't helped. He wished Bull hadn't overheard.

"Sera might," Bull added. "But she'll stop if you ask her to."

"Unlikely," Dorian countered, and Bull chuckled. "I doubt she knows how to stop once she gets started."

Bull shrugged. He was still looking up at Dorian, almost—expectantly, Dorian realized. He was waiting.

This was the opportunity Dorian needed. He glanced away, trying to gather his thoughts.

There were things that he had wanted for _years_. Wanting those things with Bull was new and, to be honest, a daunting concept. He had fucked whores and nameless strangers, but very rarely his friends. Likely the same for Bull, too. Neither of them would know what to do.

Even if they could manage that part, Dorian still didn't know what was _real_. Their affair had felt different in the weeks leading up to Orlais trip, but not like this. He hadn't ached for Bull the way he did now, so perhaps he had been overwhelmed by the attempted attack and Bull's injury, and conflated that feeling with his usual lust for big men who could lift him in one hand.

No. It was genuine. Dorian knew that, and yet he kept trying to convince himself otherwise. Old habit, he supposed. Still, he couldn't bring himself to ask Bull for what he wanted. He didn't want to be hurt. Not again, and certainly not by Bull. Fear of that was far more potent than the prospect of something different..

"I like what we have," said Dorian. That wasn't a lie. Not completely. More of an obfuscation of the truth. If Bull could see through that, so be it. "And you?"

Bull's expression didn't change. He reached up and slipped his fingers behind Dorian's collar, tugging lightly. He grinned when Dorian understood, leaning down, and he slid his palm up to hold Dorian's face.

They kissed, so slowly and sweetly that Dorian nearly drew back and joked about it. 

"If you're happy," Bull murmured, kissing the corner of Dorian's mouth, "I'm happy. I'm easy that way."

Dorian nodded as he pulled away, straightening. He refused to be disappointed by that answer. If he couldn't manage the complete truth, he didn't expect Bull to confess anything. If there was even anything at all to confess.

"Surely, there are others who would keep you equally satisfied."

The words slipped from Dorian's mouth quickly, almost as though someone else had spoken them. They hadn't discussed that at all, barring a casual mention on the first night that Dorian couldn't remember the details of, since he'd been more than a little drunk at that point. He had assumed that Bull would continue fucking his way through the kitchen staff and perpetual supply of curious soldiers, but he didn't know.

He hadn't discovered an interest in anyone else. Not since Bull. He wondered if that was worth mentioning.

"I don't care," said Bull, shrugging. "I have you. And you have me."

That sounded almost romantic. Dorian promptly panicked.

"I am quite good, aren't I," he said and stood, heading for the door. Behind him, Bull said his name, but Dorian ignored it and wished him a good night as he left.

He took the long way back to his own quarters, frustrated and cold.

* * *

It was weeks before Vivienne, Cassandra, Blackwall, and Varric returned.

Dorian overheard a messenger informing Leliana and left the library to meet them. Vivienne was already in the front hall, dictating a message to a young man outside of Josephine's office. He waited until the boy ran off before he greeted Vivienne.

"Hello, darling," said Vivienne, offering him a smile. She looked impeccable, as always; there was nothing on her clothes or her face to indicate that she'd spent the better part of a day traveling. "Come, join me. I have news you'll want to hear."

Of the men who had attacked Bastien's estate, Dorian assumed. He nodded and followed her into Josephine's office. Inside, Josephine was behind her desk, paper and pen at the ready, and she offered them both a quick greeting. Vivienne stood by the fireplace, while Dorian sat in one of the available chairs.

Trevelyan joined them shortly after, trailed by Cassandra.

"Good news?" Trevelyan asked. She sat on the edge of Josephine's desk, folding her arms over her chest. When Vivienne nodded, she closed her eyes and sighed. "Thank the Maker."

"We sent messages ahead of us," said Cassandra. She leaned against the empty chair, clearly favoring one leg. "The scouts were hampered by resistance on the road, unfortunately. We met them on the journey back."

Trevelyan glanced between Cassandra and Vivienne, and beckoned for one of them to continue.

"The attack was not meant for you," Vivienne began. "Nor for me, or Bastien. One family made an attempt on another, using an obscure mercenary group. They paid very little for the privilege."

Dorian was relieved to know it wasn't a personal attack on anyone within the Inquisition. It was simple, useless politics, caused by people who knew far too little about the world they were causing trouble in. Who else would bother hiring cheap brawlers to attack a well-known politician's home—and one associated with a powerful mage, linked to the Inquisition. Not to mention the _other_ powerful mage, who carried the true power of the Fade in her palm.

Regrettable, but that was the way the Game was played. Knowing Orlesian politics, the offending parties would likely be laughed out of any power, and kept there for generations.

"The company is disbanded," Cassandra added. She glanced over at Dorian. "You and Bull killed them all."

Bodies on the ground. Bull's blood, dripping between his fingers. Dorian cleared his throat, shrugging. "Good." Vivienne hummed in agreement.

"I need names," said Josephine. She glanced at Trevelyan, adding, "If we intend to retaliate."

Cassandra shook her head. "Their records were encrypted. We sent copies with the scouts. Leliana's people should be working on them now."

"And the originals?" Trevelyan asked.

"Safe in Bastien's estate," Vivienne answered. "Another copy is with the Inquisition forces in Val Royeaux."

"Well done," said Trevelyan, smiling. She nodded curtly towards Vivienne and Cassandra. "We'll continue this discussion once we have the names. If that's all…" When no one spoke, she pushed herself off Josephine's desk. "I'll go inform Bull. Cassandra, Cullen was hoping to speak with you."

Cassandra nodded and left, still limping slightly. Josephine began to write, scribbling quickly and frowning, crossing out words the moment she wrote them. When Dorian wished her a good afternoon, she didn't look up and murmur the same until he was at her door.

"May I accompany you back to your quarters, Madame," said Dorian. He offered Vivienne a deep bow, extending his arm towards the stairs.

"How very kind of you," said Vivienne, a small smile tugging on the corner of her mouth. She strode ahead of him, as she tended to do, and Dorian followed.

He liked the room she had made for herself above the hall, where she could see anyone who entered and left the castle or the grounds. From her balcony, he could see Cole perched on top of the tavern, hugging his knees to his chest. There was a merchant trying to guide three overstuffed carts through the front gates, and failing. The horses whined, the sound sharp and high over the wind and clashing of swords in the training grounds, where Bull and Krem were sparring. That didn't seem to be an even match; it was mostly Bull hitting Krem with a shield and Krem falling over.

"Any news?" Vivienne asked. Dorian glanced over his shoulder. She was sitting on the settee, legs crossed, skimming a letter.

"No," Dorian answered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bull throw his head back and laugh. He could almost feel it rumbling against his chest. "Nothing new, I'm afraid."

Vivienne nodded and stood, setting the letter aside. She joined him on the balcony and followed his gaze, chuckling. It was a warm sound, but he still braced himself for what she would say.

"You must know, darling," she said, turning to fix him with a steady look, "that I find your affair quite…sweet."

"I try not to do anything without your support," Dorian replied, but he was pleased to hear it. Direct compliments were a rarity from Vivienne, and he had wondered if she found his association with Bull distasteful, or even childish. "I am thrilled to have it."

"As you should be," said Vivienne, smiling. She stepped towards the railing, resting her hands on top of it. "May I ask for your assistance later this week? One of those apprentices is still having trouble with a simple conjuration, and our enchanters are already overworked."

Dorian nodded. Occasionally, they both assisted with the young apprentices that the Inquisition forces found wandering the countryside. He enjoyed teaching, though not enough to make a career out of it, and he suspected the same was true for Vivienne. He certainly lacked the patience for it, but he knew the value of a good teacher.

"Excellent," said Vivienne. She stepped away from the balcony and returned to her settee, beckoning him to follow. "Now, tell me what you've learned while I was away. Did those books arrive from Tevinter? Josephine paid a small fortune to smuggle them over the border."

They discussed his research until a runner came, with a message for Vivienne's ears only. Dorian murmured his goodbyes and returned to the library, where he had several tedious tomes to work through.

*

By the evening, Dorian was still in a stellar mood.

The people who had attacked Bastien's estate were no longer a problem. Vivienne had approved of his association with Bull. His research into Corypheus's true name was coming along tremendously. He had spent many nights in Bull's room since they came back to Skyhold, and he had grown used to feeling that deep ache in his chest each time they spoke. Few things would disrupt this mood, and he could think of at least one thing that would improve it. 

He left the castle, squinting through the dying sunlight.

In the tavern, it was easy to spot Bull: sitting in the corner with his Chargers, playing cards. A serving girl scooped up each empty mug and replaced it with a fresh drink, balancing the dirty ones on a single tray. Music played faintly. No one was singing or dancing yet, but it was still early.

Dorian leaned against the bar and stared, trying to catch Bull's eye. When he did, Krem noticed and lifted a deck of cards, tapping, then pointed at an empty seat along the bench.

A kind offer, which Dorian was touched by. He and Krem weren't exactly friends. They were _friendly_ , he supposed, but rarely spoke to each other without Bull or Trevelyan there. Krem didn't care for high-born mages, particularly ones from Tevinter, and Dorian could understand why.

He shook his head. Krem shrugged and cut the deck before he began shuffling the cards.

Bull was still watching. Dorian inclined his head, ever so slightly, towards the stairs. He was delighted to see surprise: Bull's eye widened, if only for a moment, and then he nodded.

Normally, Dorian would meet him an hour or so later. He didn't feel like waiting tonight.

"You gonna order," said Cabot, irritation soaking every word. Dorian pushed away from the bar and headed for the stairs.

Behind him, he heard Bull say, "Fold," followed by metal, scraping against the table.

"You can't fold _and_ make a bet, chief," Krem called. Rocky and Stitches laughed, the sound rising over the low music and conversation, but Dorian didn't care. Bull's footsteps were heavy on the stairs, and the weight of his shadow draped over Dorian's back.

Bull leaned down, murmuring, "This is a nice surprise," against Dorian's ear. He straightened, tilting his horns away from a serving girl holding two trays above her head.

"I've been told you like them," Dorian replied. He heard a deep chuckle.

They didn't talk again until they reached Bull's room, where Bull tugged on their clothes and tried to kiss Dorian at the same time. It made for a slow journey to the bed, and Dorian struggled not to laugh as his legs hit the mattress, trousers still twisted around his thighs.

"Aw, don't laugh at me," Bull grumbled.

"Do something about it, then," said Dorian. He felt oddly light-headed, dizzy from his own laughter, and the pressure dipped in his head again when Bull touched his wrists, holding his arms in place against his sides. There was no weight behind the touch, and Dorian could easily wriggle free, but he didn't.

Bull slid his hands up Dorian's arms, stopping at his biceps. "Yeah?"

"What did I just tell you," said Dorian, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. He tipped his head towards the bed, adding, "Get on with it."

"I'm getting there," Bull replied, and then he was grinning and nudging Dorian backwards, pushing his hands above his head.

*

After, Dorian chose to stay the night.

He had been doing that more often. There were excuses at first: how he was too tired or too well-fucked to even consider moving, and Bull had accepted them without comment. The first few times, anyway. At some point, Bull had told him that he didn't need to explain it every time, and Dorian had shrugged and blamed old habits.

Beside him, Bull snorted. The sound ricocheted around the room.

He was on his back, one arm stretched above Dorian's head and the other on his own chest, covering Dorian's hand. Their fingers were linked together, and had been since Dorian snuffed the torch and huddled close to Bull's chest. Dorian lifted his hand slightly and watched Bull's fingers dangle over his palm, thinking about all the strength hidden there. There was plenty of it. Bull could kill people with his bare hands and swung heavy weapons as though they were toys, but he always touched Dorian with such tenderness.

Dorian lowered his hand, pressing his fingertips into the skin below. A thick scar rubbed against his palm.

He wondered, not for the first time, if he was happy.

Their affair functioned the way it had always been: casual, no strings attached, excellent sex with someone he considered a friend. People knew now, which was different. Dorian was still adjusting to that, but it wasn't as humiliating as he had assumed. He doubted he would ever be entirely comfortable with the notion, though.

And he did still wish for more, sometimes. He wondered if Bull knew.

If Bull did, he didn't push. Bull never did. He suggested and offered, and backed off when Dorian told him to—which Dorian had done, a few weeks ago. Dorian had made his choice, and it was one that he regretted, but he was still content with what he had. He knew that Bull cared for him, and that was enough. Whether Bull had the same level of affection that Dorian did, he was uncertain. In truth, he didn't even know if Bull would understand what that felt like, or if the Qun allowed for that sort of thing.

Perhaps Bull was lying there, awake, wondering the same things.

That was wishful thinking. Dorian ignored it, despite his curiosity. His imagination always gave him the worst possible outcome, and he had no intention of meeting those expectations. Besides, this had gone on for too long. He couldn't expect Bull to change their routine now.

And he _was_ happy. Satisfied. This was more than he had assumed, and far more than he had hoped for. It wasn't what he used to dream of when he was a boy, but he wasn't young, anymore. He hadn't been for a long time, and he had learned when to take what he could.

This was not a compromise. Not at all. This was simply an understanding of how far he would allow himself to go.

Dorian sighed, closing his eyes.

A moment later, Bull grunted. His fingers twitched, then stilled. "Did I wake you?"

"No," Dorian answered. He opened his eyes and blinked until he could see the muddy shape of Bull's belly in the dark. "Just thinking."

"Oh." Bull tightened his grip on Dorian's fingers. "About those Orlesian mercs?"

Not at all, but Dorian nodded. His cheek rubbed against Bull's chest. "Do you still think about it?" He still had nightmares every once in a while of the blood on the stone and Bull, clutching at the hole in his belly.

"Sometimes," Bull answered. He shifted until his right arm touched Dorian's back. "Not a lot. I try not to."

Understandable. Dorian didn't want to think about it, either.

He dragged his fingers down Bull's chest until he found the spot where the sword had entered. Still unmarked, thanks to Trevelyan's skills. He rubbed his thumb over the smooth skin, which was still a strange feeling. Bull's skin was more scarred than not.

If Bull spent as much time worrying about his past injuries as Dorian had, he would have little time for anything else.

"There was pain," Bull went on. He curled his fingers, drawing Dorian's hand closer to his. "But I wasn't alone."

That hurt in a very peculiar way. Dorian recognized the deep swell in his chest and closed his eyes, trying to let it pass. "Go back to sleep, Bull. You're too maudlin."

"Sorry," Bull murmured. He chuckled, slowly enough for Dorian to think it was forced. "It's late. Careful, I might start crying next."

"Perish the thought," said Dorian. He huddled closer, until Bull's body was entirely pressed against his. "Sleep. I'll entertain you in the morning."

Bull hummed and smacked his arse lightly. "Okay. Sounds good to me."

He shifted his weight, settling deeper into bed, and drifted off almost immediately, his steady breathing paired with a deep snore. It took Dorian a long time to do the same.

* * *

Time passed, as it always did, and things stayed the same.

Dorian worked on his research. He held long discussions with Trevelyan and Josephine about Tevinter, followed by another exchange of letters with friends back home. He outdrank soldiers and laughed when they pleaded mercy, stumbling away to vomit in the dirt. He accompanied Vivienne to her lessons with the apprentices, showing the young mages how to conjure and control flames. He spent afternoons with Cullen, playing chess and working on a way to soothe the man's headaches.

When he wasn't in Skyhold, he followed Trevelyan to forgotten corners of the world, where there were always unpleasant people who insisted on fighting. The Inquisition planted more flags and set up new camps, growing larger with each passing day.

And Bull still welcomed him into a bed at night.

It worked, and it was good.

* * *

The forests in the Dales somehow managed to be dark and too bright at once. Sunlight was hot on the back of Dorian's neck, sweat collecting under his arms, and darkness took his vision when they stepped under a tree. Wild animals frolicked through the grass alongside them, bolting in the opposite direction when anyone looked towards them, and all the flowers made Trevelyan sneeze and curse. Giants groaned in the distance, and the trees trembled with them.

And there were the Freemen of the Dales, who fought and died as well as any soldier.

It was raining faintly today, enough to be irritating to the skin and dampen the ground. His fire still burned, though. Trevelyan wrinkled her nose as she brandished a conjured sword over a charred corpse, Dorian's spell still crackling under the man's ribs. Beside her, Cole glanced over the other bodies, daggers loose and bloody in his hands.

Dorian turned, expecting one remaining enemy, and found two. He dodged the first, disappearing in a rush of cold air, and collided with the second. Slamming his staff into the man's knees bought him a little time, but it was all he needed: the sword missed when Bull charged in, pushing Dorian to the side. His greataxe was gone, buried in some poor dead man's chest, and he swung wildly with his fist—

And gasped, bending at the waist.

Dorian's boots slipped in the mud as he scrambled closer, using his staff to steady his footing. He could see the blood as clear as day, spilling from a hole in his gut, and the light slowly leaving Bull's eye. Not again. _Maker_ , not again.

"Bull," said Dorian stiffly, groping blindly at Bull's belly. He had to stop the bleeding before Trevelyan could prepare another healing spell. "Bull—"

Was laughing, his big shoulders shaking with the force of it. He caught Dorian's wrist, linking their fingers together, and said, "He got a lucky punch," as he nodded towards the dead man at their feet. "Not that it mattered much. Poor guy."

Dorian couldn't answer. He wrenched his hand free and stared at Bull's stomach: bare, scarred skin, with smears of blood where he might have wiped his hand. There was—there _had_ been a wound there, before, and their hands would have been soaked in blood—

Trevelyan called something, her voice hardly perceptible over the rush in Dorian's ears.

Bull looked over his shoulder, saying, "I got it," and turned back to Dorian. He held Dorian's cheek in one big hand, thumb rubbing along his cheekbone. "Hey, look at me."

He couldn't. Every stuttered breath was a knife in his throat, hot and wet. Dorian blinked, dimly aware that he was trembling, but he couldn’t stop. A wave of dizziness crashed through him, and—he couldn't. He couldn't. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"In," said Bull, demonstrating. Dorian heard him inhale and hold his breath, tapping along Dorian's cheek for a count, then exhale slowly. "Then out."

Dorian tried to do the same. Breathing was a simple concept, and one he had certainly mastered by this point, but each breath felt weaker than the last. He tightened his grip on his staff, digging his nails into his palm.

"Take it slow," said Bull quietly. "It's okay."

In the trees above, a bird squawked loudly enough that Dorian flinched. He sucked in another deep breath, trying to concentrate. He couldn't react like this every time Bull was injured. Bull objected to fights that he didn't walk away from with at least one wound, and if Dorian felt that terrible drop in his belly every time—No. This panic was too tedious. He was _exhausted_ , and all he had done was breathe.

When Dorian's breathing settled, Bull patted his cheek.

"Don't," Dorian rasped, shoving Bull's hand away. "Don't do things like that."

Bull had been unarmed. Lightly armored, because he refused to wear heavy plate, claiming it only slowed him down. If he had been injured, Dorian would have been able to do nothing but stand and watch Trevelyan fix it. If the sword had hit his heart, throat, or thigh, he would have bled out and died.

And in Orlais, if Cole hadn't heard him, and if Trevelyan hadn't arrived in time—

"Hit people?" Bull asked. He nudged the corpse, flipping him onto his back. "He was trying to kill you."

"Don't," Dorian repeated. A memory rushed forward, clear as day, of the way Bull gasped when the sword hit. He didn't want to imagine a world without Bull in it. "Especially not for me."

Something like confusion spread over Bull's face. It stayed there, long past the time it took for Dorian to recognize it. Genuine, then, and not something Bull was reluctant to show him. He would be touched if he didn't feel so unsteady.

"Dorian," Bull said, so gently that bitter embarrassment rose quickly in Dorian's cheeks. He had expected Bull to tease: tell him to stay out of the enemy's path in the future, or something similar. Not something so tender as the way his name sounded when Bull spoke it. "It's—"

"Let's go," said Dorian curtly. He felt strangely off-balance, as though he would keel over at any moment, and the back of his neck was too hot. He loosened his grip on his staff, flexing his fingers until the heat faded. Bull watched, his eye focused on Dorian's face. Bristling, Dorian snapped, "What are you waiting for? Get your axe."

Finally, Bull nodded and stepped a few paces away to tug his axe free from a corpse's chest. It made a stomach-churning sound, which didn't help the rapid pulse in Dorian's throat. He stood in place, watching Bull clean the blade.

"Okay," said Bull, once the axe was strapped to his back and his hands were clean. No blood. Not on his hands, anyway. Dorian could still remember the way his hands had felt, soaked in Bull's blood.

He glanced away. Trevelyan and Cole were waiting, pointedly not looking in their direction.

"You good?" Bull asked.

Dorian didn't answer. He nodded and started walking, fingers tightening around his staff. It only took Bull a few paces to catch up with him.

"Hey," said Bull, laying one big hand on Dorian's shoulder. He leaned down, lowering his voice. "You know I'd do that for anyone."

The words hit Dorian's belly like a knife, jamming through to his spine.

There were many things he understood about Bull, and this was one of them: that Bull was kind and careful, always taking point and blocking heavy blows when he could. He was selfless in a way that almost seemed unnatural, and he never expected praise for it. If anything, he seemed uncomfortable by the idea that he should be commended for doing something he considered as basic as politeness.

So, yes. Of course Bull would have done that for anyone. He would protect a stranger or a friend or someone he loathed, no matter their history. That was what Bull did. If Bull had said he stepped in front of that blow simply because he cared too much to see Dorian hurt, Dorian would have been the first to laugh and tell him to stop being so foolish.

It stung, realizing how much he wanted something like that to be true. A useless thing to want, considering their relationship would never be anything more than it was. That opportunity was long gone.

Sighing, Dorian shrugged his shoulder out of Bull's hand and strode ahead.

Bull called his name, and Dorian ignored him. It was selfish and rude, but people expected that of him, anyway.

*

On the trek back to camp, Bull stayed at the rear. Trevelyan took point, conjured sword in her hand, which left Dorian in the middle, walking through the mud with Cole at his side. Thankfully, the boy mostly kept quiet and talked about flowers and Orlesian folk songs, of all things.

Clouds still darkened the sky as they ate their supper, at separate fires. Cole sat beside him, warming his palms and chuckling when Dorian coaxed the flames into following his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bull and Trevelyan, seemingly in a deep conversation. Trevelyan's eyes flicked towards him more than once.

Dorian looked at his half-eaten food, feeling strangely jittery. He stood, announcing, "I'm going for a walk," and left before Cole could respond.

The rain had stopped, but the ground was still damp, and mud squelched under his boots. Dorian slipped past the two guards at the edge of camp, nodding to both, and headed for the tree line.

He didn't expect Bull to follow him. People went to Bull, not the other way around, but he could hear footsteps: pointed ones, hitting the crunchy leaves and puddles that Bull normally avoided. Dorian kept walking, his eyes focused on the path ahead, until he found a tree stump. He lifted the end of his staff and sat, shifting his weight until the staff wasn't digging into his shoulder. Damp spread through Dorian's robes as he watched Bull approach, remembering with sickening clarity how he felt the last time he wanted someone this badly.

"I can leave," Bull offered, tilting his head towards camp.

Dorian shook his head. It would probably be best to sort this out now, rather than wait until it boiled over again. He should have taken care of it in Orlais, when he first recognized this fondness for what it was.

"You're mad," Bull guessed.

"Not really," Dorian replied. If anything, he was angry with himself for allowing this to continue for so long. He should have declined Bull's invitation to spend the night again, all those months ago.

Bull stepped closer and leaned against a nearby tree, folding his arms over his chest. "You can tell me."

"I know," said Dorian. The words felt numb on his tongue. Bull always gave him several options and a chance to back out, if he needed to. He wished he had taken that chance earlier. Instead, he had chosen some half-truth, and was paying the price for it now.

"I didn't think you were the kinda person to get upset over kill counts," Bull went on. A faint smile appeared on his face as he chuckled, shaking his head. "Had a guy in my company once who would get grumpy and quiet whenever someone had a higher count. He never ended up talking to Krem, much. Or me."

Dorian had heard that story before. Rocky had told it one night in the tavern, twisting his face into a cartoonish pout as he grumbled and complained about not being able to bloody his sword. There had been a lost of angry fist shaking at the sky and colorful cursing, followed by Skinner's loud snorts. Dorian remembered nudging his leg against Bull's until Bull touched his knee and squeezed.

That appalling ache in his chest deepened. Dorian shook his head. "That's not it."

"Okay," said Bull, nodding. He shifted his weight, scratching at his elbow. "Did I scare you? All I saw was his sword, aimed right at you."

"No," Dorian answered. Bull spoke casually, but he could hear the hesitation beneath. A little part of him broke at the sound. "You don't frighten me."

"That's good." Bull uncrossed his arms, letting his hands hang loosely by his sides. "I don't want to do that. Ever."

Dorian opened his mouth, ready to tell Bull that he never had, that this wasn't his fault, but Bull continued.

"I care about you," he said softly, and Dorian's pulse jumped in his throat. Bull glanced away for a moment, fingers flexing against his thigh. "I care about what happens to you."

"As do I," Dorian replied, remembering the slick feel of blood against his palms. Bull looked back at him, one side of his mouth curving into a smile.

He wondered if Bull knew exactly what was going through his mind.

Perhaps—

Dorian had rejected that idea before it could grow, but it wouldn't leave.

Perhaps there was still a chance.

Hope was a dreadful thing. Dorian had learned to live without such sentiments a long time ago, but it was still difficult to keep his thoughts in order. He had left camp assuming this was the end of it all, and now—a chance that Bull understood, and felt the same way.

Either Bull did, or he didn't. That part was simple. All Dorian had to do was ask, this time.

He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, trying to find the right words. It was a long few minutes before he spoke.

"You should know," said Dorian, twisting his fingers together, "that I am terribly fond of you."

He found himself holding his breath, waiting. This was something he had known for a long time, but the idea of genuinely caring for Bull was still new. Exciting, too, but mostly terrifying, especially now that he'd said it out loud. He couldn't take those words back.

"I like that," said Bull. When Dorian glanced up, he saw a smile, and that gave him enough courage to continue.

"I want to," said Dorian, fumbling for the proper words. How had Bull put it? "Keep going."

The smile widened, and Bull's eye was bright. "I like that, too."

Dorian bowed his head, desperate to hide the goofy grin spreading over his face, but Bull would still be able to see the way his shoulders slumped and how his hands dangled loosely between his knees. He had to look ridiculous. _Kaffas_ , his cheeks were starting to feel sore.

"I see," said Dorian, when he could trust his voice to remain steady. He stood, brushing dirt and splinters off his robes. "Splendid."

"Yeah," said Bull. He was still smiling. "You and me—this is gonna be fun."

The lovely eagerness in his tone made Dorian's cheeks ache again. He stepped closer, beckoning Bull towards him. "Are you implying it wasn't before?"

Bull pushed himself away from the tree and met Dorian halfway, reaching to hold his face in both hands. He leaned down, hunching over so Dorian didn't have to stand on his toes, and kissed him. Stubble scratched against Dorian's skin.

"Fuck, no," Bull murmured. He pressed a small kiss to the corner of Dorian's mouth. "Not at all."

Dorian touched Bull's wrists, fingers stretching over the back of his palms. "Good. I'd hate to think you were pretending."

There was a brief pause before Bull spoke, but it was long enough that something sharp stabbed through Dorian's gut.

"I didn't know," said Bull quietly. He thumbed at Dorian's lower lip, grinning when Dorian turned and bit lightly. "Not for a long time."

Feeling more curious than polite, Dorian asked, "Since when?"

Bull shrugged. He looked faintly embarrassed. "Too long, probably. And then…shit, I didn't want you thinking you had to do something."

"Aren't we a pair of fools," said Dorian, and then he couldn't stop the laughter. It tickled his throat, spilling into the surrounding trees. He stretched closer, humming. "Oh, definitely. Fools."

They kissed again, Bull's hands still so warm and heavy on the side of his face. He could feel Bull's grin against his mouth.

Eventually, Bull gathered Dorian closer and kissed the top of his head. "Dorian."

"Yes?" said Dorian, his voice muffled in the glorious expanse of Bull's chest. He shifted, wrapping his arms around Bull's middle. This was a good spot. He didn't want to leave.

Bull lowered his mouth to Dorian's ear, murmuring, "You have my heart," which was equal parts thrilling and nerve-wracking. It was a struggle to think of the correct reply.

"Oh?" was all Dorian could come up with.

"My heart," said Bull again. It sounded like he was still grinning. "D'you want me to spell it?"

"As though you could."

"I can butcher some Tevene."

"No need for that."

They stayed like that for a few minutes, not speaking. In the distance, soldiers were singing, the notes rising richly above the wind.

Bull pushed his fingers through Dorian's hair, gently tugging his head back. "Boss will probably send out a search party soon."

Dorian glanced up at the sky. It was getting dark. He nodded and stepped away, though it was difficult to leave Bull's embrace. There was warmth and kindness there, and a certain sturdiness that he appreciated.

They began to walk. Dorian sidestepped a deep puddle, frowning when the heel of his boot sank into the mud. A few minutes of silence passed.

"I don't know what I'm doing," said Bull quietly. He nudged Dorian's arm with his. "But I'll try not to fuck it up."

More kindness, that Dorian certainly didn't deserve. Something swelled in his chest.

"I doubt you could," Dorian replied, remembering Orlais and the way discomfort had crawled over his skin when everyone learned of their affair. Or how long it had taken him to realize the extent of his feelings, and how deeply he had buried them. He wasn't particularly proud of any of it. "That'll be me, I'm afraid."

Bull slung an arm over his shoulder, tugging him closer. He leaned down, pressing a damp kiss to Dorian's cheek. "Nah."

They arrived back at camp to see that the rest of their party had also returned. Blackwall, Varric, and Sera were eating by a nearby fire. It looked like Sera was on her third bowl of meat stew. Solas and Cole were standing at the edge of camp, gesturing towards the sky. Past a line of tents was Vivienne, listing off orders to a messenger and requisition officer. Trevelyan was nowhere to be seen. Getting some much-needed rest, Dorian hoped.

Bull slipped his arm off Dorian's shoulder, touching his back absently. "I'm hungry."

"Go eat," Dorian said, nodding at the cooking fires in the center of camp. Bull patted his chest before he headed for food. Even when Bull had disappeared into the crowd, Dorian could still feel the press of those fingers against his chest.

When Dorian turned away, Varric waved and called his name.

"Cards?" Varric asked. He patted his chest pocket, where Dorian knew a deck of cards was hidden. "No coin. We're playing for buttons."

Dorian walked over. The only available seat was the ground or an overturned log, and he chose the log. "Buttons?"

"And those little Orlesian cakes," Sera added. She set aside her empty bowl and reached for Blackwall's, yelping when he smacked her hand with his spoon.

Varric pulled out the cards and began to shuffle them. Sera reached into her pockets until she retrieved literal handfuls of buttons, which she distributed equally as Varric dealt the first hand.

Bull joined them shortly after, carrying a bowl of stew. He sat next to Dorian, close enough that their legs were pressed tightly together. It took Dorian a moment to realize that he was leaning into the touch, but not long at all to decide he didn't care. Not right now. He could panic about this later, and Bull would likely listen and then alternate between sweet words and teasing until he relaxed.

"Oh, no," said Sera, looking faintly horrified. "It's happening, isn't it? Shit."

"Language," said Dorian cheerfully. He picked up his cards and, after a brief discussion with Bull, bet a few buttons.

Sera held the cards close to her face. She peered over the top, scowling. "I can see it on your dumb face."

"Children," said Varric. He matched the bet, flipping each button into the pile with his thumb and forefinger. "Please."

Sera stuck her tongue out at him and tossed her cards into the center. "Fine."

"Betting already?" Blackwall asked. He handed his bowl to Sera, who dug in happily. "Someone's feeling lucky."

Dorian shrugged and peeked at his cards again. Beside him, Bull hummed in agreement.

As the sun fell behind the horizon, Bull was still beside him. This was good. Dorian suspected it could only get better.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> If you would like to reblog the art on Tumblr, [sorellaerba](http://sorellaerba.tumblr.com)'s is [here](http://sorellaerba.tumblr.com/post/128424655930/art-for-the-amazing-fanfiction-wrote-by-zythepsary), and [snewts](http://snewts.tumblr.com)' is [here](http://snewts.tumblr.com/post/128441382240).


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